


Oh, Sandy

by yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Combeferre being cute, Courfeyrac is late for absolutely everything, Enjolras drives Courf up the wall, Hopefully some fluff, Jehan is the best, M/M, Mutual Pining, University AU, but then Courf drives Enjolras up the wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-12 19:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11744034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme/pseuds/yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme
Summary: Courfeyrac, despite his best intentions, finds himself hopelessly drawn to the boy at the front of lectures who gives him a smile every time Courfeyrac turns up late. Which is every day.Combeferre can't help but feel a soft spot for the blushing boy who seems to not own a watch, or any sort of time keeping device.





	1. Chapter 1

Courfeyrac sighs impatiently, late as usual, as he struggles through the rush hour traffic through the campus hallways, desperately trying to make it to his lecture on time. Where did all these people come from? Where are they going? Why were they in his way? 

He pushes through crowds of slow dawdlers(who he has come to hate, why can’t they move anywhere with speed?) and ignores the reproachful and amused looks sent his way. He doesn’t want to even begin to imagine how scruffy he looks. 

Thankfully, he’s not getting lost as he did the first few weeks of the term, but he has to admit guiltily that the number of times that he has been late hasn’t decreased in the slightest. As soon as he started knowing his way around, he started getting up later, a fact which he regrets every single morning, and a fact that his roommate tuts at him over every single morning when he sprints out the room without eating breakfast or drinking any coffee. He’s fallen into an unhealthy routine, which goes something like this:

Courfeyrac hits the snooze button for the fifth time, then looks at the time and swears loudly. In the next room, someone will sigh and Courfeyrac will grab his bag, hoping desperately that all the relevant things are in there then sprint out, usually giving Enjolras a rude gesture at some point between his bedroom and the doorway, when Enjolras gives him that look like he always does. The wtf are you doing sort your life out Courfeyrac look. 

Perfect Enjolras is always up before him, whether he has a lecture or not, and it’s driving Courfeyrac absolutely insane. He can’t count the times he’s emerged from his room tiredly ten minutes before a lecture and seen Enjolras simply sitting there on the sofa, typing away on his laptop and serenely drinking a cup of coffee, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world. If Courfeyrac didn’t know what an ass Enjolras could be, and wasn’t experiencing Enjolras’s asshole-ness firsthand, he’d probably be harbouring a crush on him, seeing as the man resembles some sort of Greek god.

He snorts to himself every time he thinks this, remembering the Percy Jackson books of his youth and wondering whether Enjolras could possibly be a son of Zeus, or Apollo, or something ridiculous like that. There’s many times when Courfeyrac decides that Enjolras simply must be a demigod because no one else he knows has that much motivation and passion in him. How does he cope with being so angry all the time? Courfeyrac often thinks that if he tried to hold that much rage inside him, he’d just explode, and is constantly monitoring Enjolras for signs of cracks in the marble facade. Courfeyrac has quickly found that Enjolras-watching is a very good form of distraction from whatever homework task he’s trying to achieve at the time. 

Perhaps, if he wasn’t so intense in every way, Courfeyrac would be developing a massive, all-consuming love for Enjolras, but Courfeyrac decided ten minutes into their relationship that he simply did not have the energy to love Enjolras as anything more than a friend. Although Courfeyrac is by no means the world’s biggest romance expert, he personally thinks that the only person who stands a chance with Enjolras is someone who is equally angry. Hopefully their anger will balance each other out, because no amount of calm could ever chill the beans of Enjolras. Not even if that person held all the calm in the world. Because that dude is angry. 

No, the real person Courfeyrac is developing a crush(despite his best intentions) on is sitting in the front of the lecture hall as Courf bursts in, smiling at him amusedly as he does every morning. 

“Good morning, Courfeyrac.” Professor Lamarque says tiredly from his place at the desk. He’s stopped criticising him for his tardiness and now only responds with patronising disappointment. Courfeyrac isn’t sure which is worse. “Only ten minutes late, today.” 

Courfeyrac feels a cheek spreading up his neck and flushing his cheeks when he realises that ‘only ten minutes’ is an improvement on his current track record; he’s pretty sure he’s the only student that Professor Lamarque knows the first name of. Well, maybe if you got up earlier and didn't attract so much attention to yourself, maybe he wouldn’t! This voice of reason is a mix between his mother’s and Enjolras’s. It provides the same, scalding advice every day, and Courfeyrac knows he’ll ignore it tonight when setting his alarm for far too late.

As he moves to take his seat, there’s a few titters of laughter, but he chances a look at the sandy haired boy in the front row, and is sad to see that he’s looking down, writing carefully on the paper in front of him. Courfeyrac, as he always does, makes a vow to talk to him at some point before this crush becomes ridiculous. 

Then when the lesson ends, Courfeyrac, as he always does, scampers out the room without so much as a backward glance at the boy in the front row. He tells himself he’ll do it next time, when he’s not so busy. Problem is, he first told himself that two months ago.

[][][]

He makes a quick return to his room to collect the various books he forgot this morning, then decides to head to the library, knowing he won’t get any work done when there are so many fun things to do in his room. His Star Wars boxset had shined guiltily at him when he was struggling to find one of his textbooks, and if he’s honest the thought of an afternoon of Harrison Ford is a lot more appealing than an afternoon of essay writing. 

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink through the open bathroom door, Courfeyrac winces and reluctantly pulls a comb through his messy curls, and washes his face before realising unhappily he’s in desperate need of a haircut. Could it manage until he goes home for Christmas? 

He frowns at the way the curls return instantly to his forehead and begin to cloud the top of his vision. Nah, he’s probably going to have to sort it before then. Should he do that? Even cutting his hair feels like mildly interesting afternoon task compared to what he should be doing. 

But the essay writing has to be done! His mother/Enjolras warns, and so Courfeyrac simply rolls his eyes heads back out into campus and through the quieter lunchtime crowds. The sooner it’s done, the quicker he can get back to trying to figure out Sandy’s name and working up the courage to talk to him. 

Not that he thinks that. That thought didn’t happen. Nope. 

When he enters the library, he’s carefully to keep his tread light, as there’s been many occasions where he’s just strolled in and received snow-melting glares off of stressed third-years at the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor. He insists to Enjolras that he isn’t that loud, but Enjolras always just raises his eyebrows over the top of his laptop and replies: you stomp.

He makes his way to his favourite table in the central working area, smiling at a few of the regulars that he recognises, including a slight blond boy who waves gently from where he’s sat surrounded by, from what Courfeyrac can tell, is every poetry collection ever written. Courfeyrac makes a mental note to talk to him when he’s not so busy with work. (But when will he ever not be?)

Sighing, he pulls out a chair from the table, then all his books out of his bags, and begins to work on the essay he got set that very morning. 

Ha! He tells his mother/Enjolras. Look at me, doing work on the day it was set. 

The voice is silent, obviously it only likes to say things when Courfeyrac is in the wrong(much like both of the real people the voice reminds him of, he guesses). He wonders if he’ll ever go a day without hearing it. Then he has to stifle a laugh, because of course not. Still, he can be slightly proud of himself today. 

Halfway through the gargantuan piece of writing, his hand begins to cramp up with sharp, shooting pains, so he reluctantly sets down his pen, wishing he had magic hands like his roommate, who he once watched write for four hours straight. If there’s one positive of Enjolras, it’s that he’s very good entertainment and motivation for mere mortals who are unable to achieve such feats.  
“Hello, Courfeyrac.” Speak of the devil. Enjolras appears in front of Courfeyrac suddenly, like an apparition, and Courfeyrac feels a smile spread over his face. For all his internal complaining about Enjolras, Courf really does find him interesting. 

He is also very handy to have around when you’re working, as he knows everything about anything. Courfeyrac has to admit that between choosing Google and Enjolras if he can’t find the information he needs, he’ll pick his roommate first. Not that he’d ever let Enjolras know that. He can’t imagine the immense smugness of the grin he’d receive if he let it slip. 

“Hey.” Courfeyrac says in reply, shifting some of his papers and a large law textbook so that Enjolras can sit diagonally across from him. Enjolras takes a seat wearily, and Courfeyrac is surprised to see the dark circles under his eyes. He’s even more surprised when Enjolras doesn’t make a move to start any work, despite the fact that he can see that the blond’s bag is practically full to bursting with books. “Did you sleep at all last night?” He asks with a hint of worry to his tone, and Enjolras looks at him in shock. Yeah, I notice things. Courfeyrac thinks bitterly. 

But Courfeyrac merely raises his eyebrows, reminding himself that he promised he’d try and be nice to Enjolras, no matter how annoying he could be. “Well? Did you?” He remembers as he speaks that when he’d gone to sleep last night, the blond had been in exactly the same position that he’d found him in this morning. Cracks in the facade. 

Enjolras stretches slowly as a blush floods his cheeks, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably and confirming Courfeyrac’s suspicions. 

“Depends what you count as sleeping.” Enjolras admits, earning himself an eye roll from Courf. 

“Go to bed, Enjolras.” He tells him, picking up his pen again as the immense pain in his writing hand has subsided slightly. Enjolras, however, doesn’t move, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes again. “Come on, you have to sleep.” 

“Sleep is for the weak.” Enjolras replies whilst stifling a yawn. Courfeyrac glares at him, and eventually Enjolras just stands up, although he doesn’t think that Enjolras is going to go anywhere remotely near his bed. Probably just off to somewhere where Courf can’t nag him . “Bye, mom.” He snarls, stalking off, and Courfeyrac has to suppress a laugh at the irony, considering that it’s Enjolras’s disapproving tone that usually sets Courfeyrac about necessary daily tasks, even if it’s within his own head. 

Courfeyrac shakes his head with a chuckle and is about to return to his essay when someone drops a book to the floor with a bang and diverts his attention to the real reason that he frequents the library. 

Sandy haired boy from the front row (Courfeyrac is yet to find out his name) picks up the book and hands it back to the other boy, who, if by the warmth of his smile is anything to go by, is one of Sandy’s friends. Courfeyrac catches a few words of their conversation, and gathers that the clumsy one is called Bousset, but then has to look down as Sandy looks towards him. Did he catch him watching? 

Courfeyrac knows his cheeks have gone red, as they always seem to do when pretty boys are involved, and is just hoping that Sandy is not looking at him when someone else sits heavily down into the seat that Enjolras recently left. 

A head of scruffy black curls grin at Courfeyrac, who looks bemusedly back at the newcomer, who stretches and nods to the door. Courfeyrac does not recognise him, even though something seems eerily familiar. 

“You know Apollo?” He asks, and Courfeyrac laughs, smiling back. Evidently he’s not the only one who notices Enjolras’s striking resemblance to the sun god. The nickname fits perfectly. 

“Apollo?” He repeats questioningly, a light teasing tone to his voice that makes the man blush, lifting a paint-splattered hand to his chin. 

“I don’t know his real name.” He shrugs. 

“Enjolras.” Courfeyrac supplies, and pretends not to notice when the man immediately murmurs it under his breath, as though it’s something to be revered. He’s guessing that he wouldn’t appreciate it if he pointed it out. 

“How’d you know him?” 

“He's my roommate.” Courfeyrac holds out his hand. “Courfeyrac, by the way.” 

The man smiles, and shakes his hand tightly. Courfeyrac notices that he’s taken an immediate liking to him, although that could just be because he’s given Enjolras a funny nickname. 

“R.” He stands up, and mock salutes. “If you’ll excuse me. I have a god to annoy.” 

Courfeyrac is about to point out that it’s very easy to annoy Enjolras, and perhaps even give him some tips, but then he remembers that Enjolras comes home nearly every night ranting and realises why the man is familiar. 

(What is it, Enjolras? 

Oh, nothing. 

Who did you fight with this time? 

Some shabby artist in the library. Claims I have a stick up my ass.)

Courfeyrac connects two and two together and laughs, pleased to finally meet the source of many a door slamming and furious shakes of blond curls. 

“Just so you know,” Courfeyrac says with a smile before R can disappear, “you are very, very good at that.” 

R’s grin, if possible, turns even wider, and Courfeyrac swears he hears him mutter fantastic! under his breath before strolling off in the direction in which Enjolras went. He worries for a sec about Enjolras’ sanity, then remembers that then at least it means any Enjolras-rage will not be directed to him. 

Hurry up with that essay! About ten voices in his head shout, and Courfeyrac unwilling obeys. 

[][][]

“You told him my name!” 

This is the greeting Courfeyrac receives when arriving back at his dorm that night, the same words that Enjolras had texted him at least a dozen times over the course of the afternoon. Courf had ignored him, dumping his phone in his bag when it rang for the fifth time, preferring instead to finish three pieces of homework to an acceptable standard, and is now regretting it as he prepares himself to face hours of build up Enjolras-rage. Why does he procrastinate everything? Why why why? 

Courfeyrac does not like Enjolras-rage, having witnessed first hand Enjolras yelling for a good twenty minutes at neighbours who dared to ask if they wanted to join their party during fresher’s week. Courf wouldn’t have minded going, but the invitation was very thoroughly declined by Enjolras, and since the event Courfeyrac has been kind of glad, as Claquesous doesn’t seem like the nice guy that he seemed to be at first. He makes a point of glaring at Enjolras every time they see him, which is only a source of amusement for both Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

Now, when Courfeyrac is on the receiving end, it’s no way near as funny. His earlier predictions about where the anger would be directed was incredibly wrong. Still, he is mildly amused to see that Enjolras’s hair has reached new levels of curls, and seems to be sparking with electricity. Definitely some sort of demigod.

He’s also looking much more awake than before, so either he had a nap as Courfeyrac suggested or has just drunk a gallon of coffee. As he surveys the coffee table, which is littered with empty mugs, Courf decides it’s the latter. 

“He was going to find out anyway.” Courfeyrac responds calmly, with a shrug of his shoulders, knowing that if he gets angry himself he stands absolutely no chance. He may be able to drink Enjolras under the table(and has done on many occasions) but this is one scenario where he simply cannot win. In arguing prowess, Enjolras wins every award.

Twice. 

“He didn’t have to. I’ve know him for weeks and he’s never known.” Enjolras splutters, and Courf merely rolls his eyes, setting his bag down on the counter. He’s pleased to see that whilst Enjolras is angry, he hasn’t really come up with convincing argument as to why Courfeyrac is wrong, and he’s secretly very relieved. 

“He was always going to find out eventually.” He tries a smile, but reins it back in when Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Anyway, what’s the problem with him knowing, Apollo?” 

Enjolras glares at him and folds his arms, reminding Courfeyrac, not for the first time, of a petulant toddler. 

“It hasn’t stopped him calling me that.” He says eventually, and here Courfeyrac feels free to laugh. 

“Then don’t react!” He replies. 

“But he’s annoying!” Enjolras protests with another, deeper frown which knots his forehead tightly. 

“Jesus Christ.” Courf says, burying his head in his hands. “This is like being back in primary school. Just… don’t let him get to you, Enjolras.” 

“How?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, annoy him back?” 

This suggestion shuts Enjolras up, to Courfeyrac’s immense surprise, and the blond looks thoughtfully at him. 

“You know, that might actually work.” He murmurs, his frown finally vanishing and a small grin ghosting his lips. 

Courfeyrac realises with a start that he can count on his hands the number of times he’s seen Enjolras smile over the two months they’ve lived together, and decides to try and make it happen more often. When he smiles, it makes him look less intimidating. 

He voices the last thought to Enjolras, who changes his expression quickly into a frown and mutters, “I like being intimidating”.

Courfeyrac snorts into his hand, then Enjolras straightens up and regards him with an expression close to fondness. 

“I’m going out. Would you like to come?” He asks, and Courfeyrac is tempted but shakes his head. “Are you sure? Not many can come tonight, it’ll only be Feuilly and Combeferre.” 

Courfeyrac shakes his head, and wonders how he can possibly have gone this long without meeting Enjolras’s friends, and then wonders how Enjolras has any friends. They must either be equally as angry, or just scarily patient. 

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’m going to go to sleep.” He pats Enjolras on the shoulder as he walks past to his room, already smiling at the prospect of his comfy bed. “Don’t want to be late in the morning.” 

Enjolras lets out a derisive snort, and Courfeyrac grins because they both know that Courfeyrac will be late no matter what time he goes to bed. 

“Sleep is for the weak!” Enjolras tells him, and Courf simply laughs. 

“I am very weak, you should know that by now.” 

“Good night, Courf.” Enjolras calls as he leaves, and Courfeyrac realises with a smile that that is the first time Enjolras has ever called him that. 

“Good night, Enjolras.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello, and welcome! Thank you very much for reading :-)

“Hey, Enjolras!” Feuilly calls across the bar as their blond friend enters, and Combeferre grins at him when he spots Enjolras’s disgruntled expression. 

“He’s been arguing with that artist again.” He whispers to Feuilly, who simply grins and throws an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders as soon as he comes within hugging range.. 

“Enjolras, how’s it going?” He asks happily, receiving only a glare in response. 

“I see you both started drinking without me.” Enjolras tells them with a slight smirk lifting up the corners of his mouth. Combeferre only rolls his eyes. 

“You were late,” he shrugs.

“Had to wait for my roommate to get home. Needed to yell at him.” 

Feuilly leaves to go get Enjolras a drink, so Combeferre decides to delve into the matter of Enjolras’ problematic (but kind, Enjolras always admits) roommate without him. That’s odd, he thinks vaguely, Enjolras had started complaining less about him. 

“What did he do?” 

“He was tracked down by Grantaire.” Enjolras says tiredly, and Combeferre is about to tell him that that isn’t exactly his fault, when he continues, “and he told him my name.” 

Combeferre just laughs. 

“What a crime.” He tells Enjolras dryly, and Enjolras only seems to get grumpier as his shoulders tense up when Feuilly returns, putting a drink on the table in front of him. 

“What’s Grantaire done now?” He asks, quite correctly guessing the source of Enjolras’ woes. Enjolras, as he always does, goes red at the sound of Grantaire’s name. 

“Not just Grantaire.” Enjolras mutters, and uses the drink as an excuse to hide his blushing face, nodding to Combeferre to explain the situation to Feuilly. 

“His roommate told Grantaire his name.” 

Feuilly frowns. 

“So now Grantaire knows what Enjolras’s roommate is called and we don’t?” 

“No,” Combeferre laughs. “Now Grantaire knows that Enjolras is called Enjolras.” 

“Ah.” Feuilly grins. “Enjolras, get the fuck over it.” 

“That’s what he said.” Enjolras grumbles, and Feuilly claps him on the back. 

“Why won’t you tell us what your roommate is called?” Feuilly asks. 

“Because then you’ll stalk him.” Enjolras says, and Combeferre nods. 

“We would.” He tells Feuilly, who is looking mildly offended. 

“True.” He admits finally, before continuing his interrogation of Enjolras. “But what would be the problem with that?” 

“Because he’ll think that you’re weird and henceforth think that I’m weird.” 

“Enjolras.” Feuilly pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s the 21st century, nobody uses the word ‘henceforth’ anymore. That is why he thinks you’re weird.” 

“Combeferre uses it.” Enjolras replies, folding his arms on the table and then resting his head on them. 

“Yeah, but we all know that Ferre was born middle-aged.” Feuilly says, waving a hand, and Combeferre sits up straighter, frowning.

“Hey!” He protests, and Feuilly just looks at him. 

“Dude, you’re literally wearing a woollen sweater that your grandma knitted you.” 

Combeferre thinks about explaining for the fifty millionth time that he’s going for the whole Remus Lupin vibe, and that he likes to be warm, but decides it’ll take too long and admits defeat, shrugging mildly in protest. Feuilly rolls his eyes. 

“Anyway, why can’t we just meet your roommate?” Feuilly asks, and Enjolras sighs. 

“Yeah, why can’t we?” Ferre echoes. 

“Because I don’t think he wants to meet you.” Enjolras says. “I keep inviting him to come out with us and he always refuses.” 

“Did you tell him that we’re not all as obstinate as you?” Combeferre asks bluntly, and Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. 

“Why would I have to?” He asks confusedly, and Feuilly swears loudly, draining the rest of his glass in one gulp. 

“Enj, you know that you and your roommate didn’t really get on at first?” 

“Because he’s unorganised and I-“ 

“Can be a twat?” Combeferre uncharacteristically finishes for him, and although Enjolras looks offended he doesn’t try to deny it, just agreeing with the tiniest shrug of his shoulders. 

“Don’t you think he would find it a little bit intimidating to meet a whole group of people who he has probably assumed are as passionate and stubborn as you?” Feuilly finishes, and Enjolras’s eyes widen in understanding. 

“Oh.” He gasps, and Feuilly just nods at Combeferre. 

“See. I’m sure his roommate’ll be our best friend in no time.” He tells him happily, and Ferre grins widely. “I mean, I guess we’re as passionate as you, but no way near as stubborn.” Enjolras frowns slightly at this. 

“Enj, now that we’ve settled that will you please just tell us his name?” Combeferre asks, and Enjolras shrugs again, letting Ferre know that the drink is doing it’s job in relaxing him. 

“Yeah, you said he’s a med student like Ferre, maybe he knows him.” Feuilly adds. Combeferre is about to point out that the only person on his course that he knows is Joly, but then Enjolras finally gives in. 

“Courfeyrac.” Enjolras says quietly. “His name is Courfeyrac.” 

[][][]

Courfeyrac.

This is all that Combeferre can think about as he lies in bed that evening, staring up at the boring beige ceiling of his dorm. He can’t get it out of his head that the boy he’s been crushing on, the boy he’s been struggling for weeks to work out how to talk to, is in fact Enjolras’s roommate. 

So really, all it would have taken was to drop by, and hey, immediate introduction. Problem solved. But now they’re two months into the term and it’s kind of awkward to do so now, as surely Courfeyrac will wonder why it’s only know that Combeferre wants to meet him? Or is he overreacting? 

Probably. 

Will Courfeyrac even recognise him from their shared time? That’s another question that he can’t answer, because it’s not as though Combeferre is a big presence in Lamarque’s lectures, unlike Courfeyrac himself. Everyone knows of Courfeyrac, who bursts in late with a blush and that wide, infectious grin. 

He groans and buries his face into his pillow thinking about that grin, because dear lord, he’s far gone. He hadn’t realised until the link between their two lives had been revealed, but now that it’s in the open it’s almost as if his brain has been storing reasons to crush on Courfeyrac for this exact moment, and is now laughing evilly at his despair. 

For starters, he’s reminded of that grin which makes Combeferre’s heart skip a beat, and the mess of black curls which he desperately wants to run his hands through. A cute collection of hoodies, and a faded blue and red striped rucksack that’s ripping at the seams, despite Courfeyrac nearly always having his arms full of books. Does he just have so many books that he can’t put them all in his bag (if so, Combeferre can relate) or is it a side-effect of what Combeferre assumes is his rushed early-morning routine? 

Combeferre resists the urge to text Enjolras and ask, the same way he’s been trying not to bombard Enjolras with questions. Then, deciding that enough is enough and he needs to just calm down, he pulls his book out of his bag, which had been discarded lazily on the floor, and tries to read the night away. 

[][][]

He is woken early by the beep of his alarm, and shoves the book of his chest with a frown, unsure of when he got to sleep but feeling as though he’s been hit over the head with a bag of bricks. 

Still, he gets up anyway, falling into his usual morning routine of getting dressed quickly, making vague attempts to flatten his hair (which refuses to cooperate), then walking out of his room to grab some coffee. 

“Good morning!” The greeting comes from his roommate, a fellow med student by the name of Joly, a new and active member of their social justice group that is growing rapidly since term started. He waves happily from where he’s sat on the sofa with a large textbook open on his knees, probably adding the finishing touches to a paper.

Combeferre returns the sentiment with a smile before moving into the kitchen, sticking on the kettle and pulling cereal out of the cupboard, humming a tune to himself. 

He’s feeling surprisingly chipper this morning considering the mood he was in when he finally fell asleep last night, and with the smell of coffee, the prospect of meeting (or not meeting) Courfeyrac seems a little less daunting. Of course, it still makes Combeferre’s stomach flip with a mixture of anxiety and excitement, but it’s not like the worry of last night which made him physically sick, which, he guesses, is a mild improvement. 

“Are you alright, Ferre?” He hears Joly’s voice behind him and turns to see his friend leaning casually in the doorway of the kitchen, a worried expression on his face. 

Obviously he’s not showing exterior signs of a more positive outlook. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” He replies, too quickly, and Joly narrows his eyes. “Why would you say that?” 

“You’re humming.” Joly answers. “You only hum when you’re nervous.” 

“Nervous? Ha.” Combeferre practically squeaks, inwardly cursing himself for his inability to keep his cool. Courfeyrac would have no bother, he practically laughs when other students tut at him for being late. 

Don’t think about Courfeyrac, he reminds himself. Don’t. 

And yet, he does, and feels a blush spreading over his cheeks which Joly merely smiles at. 

“Are you ready for the lecture?’ Combeferre says hastily, a subject change which earns him an eye roll from his roommate. 

“Of course.” Joly ducks his head as he replies, letting his long bangs fall over his face, checking for all his papers in the bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Give me five minutes.” 

[][][]

Combeferre looks up with a ready smile when the door opens five minutes into the lecture, his heart leaping, and besides him, Joly’s pointy elbow sticks into his side. He winces, but doesn’t take his eyes off of the door and the figure stepping gently through it. The rest of the room barely notices, simply used to the routine.

“Is that him?” Joly asks, Combeferre having brought Joly up to date on the drama surrounding Enjolras and his roommate (which is probably not as dramatic as Enjolras makes it out to be) on the way to the lecture hall. Combeferre nods quickly before ducking his head to focus on his notes in case Lamarque sees them conferring. The last people caught talking in a lecture were given extra essays for a week.

Thankfully though, Lamarque’s attention is solely on the boy creeping through the doorway. Courfeyrac is slightly hunched as though he thinks that if he makes himself seem small enough the irritated professor will not notice him. 

“Late again, Courfeyrac?” is all Lamarque says, and Combeferre allows himself a short glance at the person in question, who is grinning sheepishly and walking rapidly up to his seat, not meeting anyone’s eyes. His stomach does a flip when he realises that although Courfeyrac was late, he managed to comb his hair properly and is wearing a smart button up which Combeferre has to admit makes him look very handsome. 

At that thought, Combeferre puts his head in one of his hands and tries in earnest to underline the title with his red pen, hoping in vain that it will distract him from the smile which he can still just about see out of the corner of his eyes. He turns his head slightly to keep him in sight as he sits down. It’s not technically staring if he’s not looking directly at him, is it? 

“Sorry, professor.” Courfeyrac calls in a gentle voice which makes butterflies appear in Combeferre’s stomach, and looking back determinedly at the front of the room Combeferre swears he sees something close to amusement glint in Lamarque’s eyes before he continues talking. 

“Now, can anyone tell me how many bones there are in your hand?”

[][][]

Lamarque was obviously not in as good of a mood as Combeferre had previously thought, he decides unhappily as he leaves the lecture hall with an essay on wrist and hand joints to write, on an afternoon he was hoping to spend planning the next meeting with Enjolras. 

Pulling out his phone, he sends a quick text to try and re-schedule for this evening. 

To: Enjolras

< Hey, just got a monster essay and it’s going to take up my whole afternoon. Mind if we meet this evening instead? >

He picks up a sandwich from his favourite on-campus deli on the way to the library, narrowly missing dropping said sandwich on the floor when he bumps (well, crashes) into Joly’s boyfriend Bossuet, who greets him enthusiastically despite the look of utter terror on Combeferre’s face about his lunch nearly biting the dust. Combeferre tells him about the next Les Amis meeting, Bossuet telling him that Joly has been trying to convince him to go for days and Combeferre is honest when he says that he hopes to see him there. He makes a note to tell Enjolras to make sure the have extra chairs, and tries not to think about encouraging their leader to bring Courfeyrac along. 

Then he points a very lost Bossuet in the direction that Joly left in to meet their girlfriend Musichetta and he is alone again, making his way through crowds with an iron grip on his sandwich. 

The sandwich is snuck into the library in his bag, due to the strict rules enforced by the librarian who mans the desk by the door, but the girl employed on the second floor where he sets up camp is much more lax, waving at Combeferre with a smile as he sets himself down at his table, already beginning to eat as he waves awkwardly back with his mouth full of lettuce. 

He’s pretty sure she keeps popcorn under her desk which occasionally she throws at particularly rowdy visitors, so she won’t mind him eating his lunch in here. 

Combeferre feels his phone beep in his pocket as he reluctantly pulls out a textbook. 

From: Enjolras

< Yes, that’s fine. I’ll be in the Musain around 5, is that okay? >

To: Enjolras

< Sounds perfect. I’ll see you then. >

He glares at his laptop, on which he's opened up a blank word document. 

The wrist joint is composed of three carpal bones, which are the triquetral, lunate and scaphoid…..

[][][]

Enjolras lights up as Combeferre walks through the door of the Musain some hours later, and Combeferre returns the grin when he sees that there’s two mugs sitting on the table with Enjolras and his pile of notebooks. 

“Thanks, Enj.” He says gratefully as he sinks into the chair and happily wraps both hands around the mug of coffee. 

Enjolras does his typical ‘don’t mention it’ shrug and allows Combeferre to sip his drink quietly for a minutes before diving into the planning, obviously noticing the tiredness in his friend’s posture. Combeferre is eternally grateful, and wants to say something, but he thinks that perhaps Enjolras already knows. 

Slowly, revived by the magic of coffee, Combeferre contributes more and more to their discussion, helping to iron out points Enjolras was unsure of in various speeches, and producing the last meeting’s minutes from within his jacket pocket (look how organised he is, bringing them! Enjolras doesn’t need to know he completely forgot to file them). 

By the time they’ve finished, night has fallen on Paris and they’re some of the only people still occupying the Musain. 

Enjolras leans back in his chair slowly, a satisfied smile spreading over his face as he surveys their efforts. 

“This all looks pretty good.” He says eventually, Combeferre tucking some loose paper back into Enjolras’s red box which is the Official Les Amis Planning Folder™, practically never leaving Enjolras’s side. Combeferre rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and Enjolras chuckles at the look on his face. 

“Pretty good?” He repeats. “Enjolras, it’s excellent.” 

Enjolras blushes, simply pulling his bag up off of the floor for Combeferre to shove the practically ridiculous amount of planning material they’ve come up between the pair of them into. When Enjolras hums as they stand up, waving goodbye to the waitress, a small pink-haired girl called Cosette, Combeferre knows it’s because he’s pleased. 

“How was your day?” Combeferre asks as they exit and begin to walk back towards campus and their rooms. 

“Alright. Better than most, I’d say.” Enjolras replies with a grin, pointing to the backpack slung over his shoulders. 

“Didn’t bump into Grantaire today then?” He teases, smiling at the instant tightening of Enjolras’s shoulders at the mention of the artist. “You know, anyone would think you liked him.” Combeferre continues, and is pleased by the splutter of indignation let out by his friend, which really only confirms his suspicions. 

“What?” Enjolras cries, stopping in the middle of the pavement and giving Combeferre such a disgusted look that you’d think that Combeferre had suggested that Harry Potter naming his kid Albus Severus was a reasonable thing to do (Enjolras and Combeferre are both deeply of the belief that it’s a fucking disaster of a name). 

“Come on, Enjolras, it’s typical pulling-plaits behaviour. You know, primary school crush style.” Combeferre explains, and if possible, Enjolras looks even angrier. Combeferre is reminded vaguely of the Great Celery Incident of 2013.

“I do not like him!” He retorts, starting to walk again so quickly that Combeferre has to sort of jog to keep up. “He’s an arrogant, stubborn prat!” 

Combeferre could point out that Enjolras could also be describing himself, but decides not to in the interest of self preservation. 

“Uh-huh.” He replies simply, pulling on Enjolras’s arm so he slows down, realising they’ve reaches Combeferre’s block. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He asks, and Enjolras narrows his eyes. 

“I don’t like Grantaire.” He repeats, causing a chuckle from Combeferre. “I don’t.” 

“Yeah, of course you don’t.” Combeferre tells him dryly. “The chances of you not liking him are about as slim as Courfeyrac being on time to the next lecture.” 

The words are etching confusion onto Enjolras’s face before Combeferre can realise what he’s said, and then Enjolras is frowning before he can run away. 

“You know Courfeyrac? As in my Courfeyrac?” 

“He’s in my med class.” Combeferre responds as he kicks the ground, embarrassed, then looking up, his stomach sinks at the grin on Enjolras’s face. Well, crap. 

“You didn't say anything about it.” Enjolras states, and Combeferre simply stares at him. “You didn’t say anything about it, which means there’s a reason why you didn’t.” 

Combeferre decides he does not like the direction that this conversation is heading in, and begins to edge towards the door of the dormitories. 

“You didn't say anything because you like him!” Enjolras announces, drawing to the inevitable conclusion sooner than he would like, which is sadly before Combeferre can get inside. He groans loudly, a contrast to the wild grin on the face of his blond friend. “You like him!” He repeats, not in the least bit fazed when Combeferre flips him off and opens the door. 

“Good night, Enjolras.” Combeferre snaps, annoyed at the wave that Enjolras gives him in return. 

“You like him!” Enjolras shouts one last time before Combeferre shuts the door behind him. 

“I don’t!” He retorts, but still Enjolras merely gives him a thumbs up before walking off into the night. 

Combeferre is still standing in the lobby ten minutes later when his phone buzzes with a text. 

From: Enjolras

< Ferre, I’ve known you all my life. I know a crush when I see one. >

To: Enjolras

< Don’t do anything stupid. >

From: Enjolras

< When have I ever? >

Combeferre thinks back to nearly every situation he has ever encountered himself in with Enjolras, and decides that that text doesn’t deserve a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if I use too many commas. Blame it on my English teacher.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you very much to everyone who commented/left kudos last chapter, it means a lot :-)

Courfeyrac flops down on the sofa besides Enjolras on Saturday afternoon, finally back from a long shift at his job at the Gallerie Lafayette. Usually, he found his work okay, but today had been a nightmare from the get go, as kids had been hunting for last minute Halloween costumes (with their parents running behind them yelling various and increasingly pretentious names), and as a result he’d barely had a moment to breathe the whole morning. Some of the worst moments had come when he’d had to break up a fight between two five year olds over the last dragon costume whose parents had conveniently disappeared, and save his co-worker Marius from a forty something woman who was ridiculously drunk and trying to take him home, despite it being 11 o’clock in the socks section of a department store. 

Marius, bless him, had been completely oblivious to the woman's intentions and had chatted politely to her with his cheeks turning steadily redder at her words until Courfeyrac, deciding that after twenty minutes of laughing at him he should probably help, had taken pity on him and asked the woman to leave. Courfeyrac loved Marius dearly, but sharing shifts with him did mean that Courfeyrac had to take the brunt of customer service and problems, as Marius was often too busy trying not to knock anything over, or picking things up that he had knocked over. 

“What is it, Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asks worriedly, a genuine tone to his voice that Courfeyrac has only started hearing recently, now that they’ve broken into an actual friendship.

Courfeyrac launches into the story easily, having prepared his words carefully the whole of the way home, and feels the same, happy sense of pride when Enjolras laughs as he always does, as he knows that a smile from Enjolras is hard fought and worth it. Again, it reminds him that somehow he’s been saddled with the most attractive roommate the world has ever seen, even if he is a little bit of a fusspot. (Well, a lot of a fusspot).

His sister, who expected him to get a complete pervert (with Courfeyrac’s luck, anything was possible), is going to be so jealous when she comes to visit him.

“Poor Marius.” Enjolras says, as he always does at the end of Marius-related stories as Courfeyrac finishes the woeful yet amusing tale, and shakes his head. “What’s he reading?” 

“Spanish and Russian.” Courfeyrac answers, and at this Enjolras’s eyes widen in interest. 

“Double honours?” 

“Uh-huh. And speaks English fluently,” he adds. “You wanna know what else annoyed me today?” The question, of course, is rhetorical; Courfeyrac is going to tell him whether Enjolras wants to hear him or not. 

He frowns when Enjolras glances vaguely towards the red box in the corner of the room at the mention of Marius’s talents, but shrugs it off. 

Enjolras replies with a simple raise of his eyebrows which Courfeyrac interprets as ‘go ahead’. Courfeyrac realises with a smile as he begins to talk that he likes how things are now. It is easier, not trying to kill each other with glares all the time. 

Courfeyrac has hypothesised he has Grantaire to thank for the shift in their relationship. With Enjolras being annoyed at Grantaire, he simply doesn’t have the time or energy to get annoyed at Courfeyrac. 

As much. 

[][][]

Early Sunday morning finds Courfeyrac yet again in the library, editing a conclusion that he’s been putting off all weekend. He couldn’t concentrate around the dorms because Enjolras had decided to sing in the shower (a not so brilliant benefit of their closer relationship). Last night he’d rejected another offer to go out with Enjolras and his friends, why he rejected he’s not quite sure, but he’d since decided that he’d better find some friends of his own. So far, he’s quite disappointed with his university social life. 

So, he hit the library, because if you want to find overworked university students in desperate need of a friend, that’s where you go. 

Finishing the essay (which he brought with him so at least there’d be some vague pretence of actual work), he shuts his laptop and puts it safely in his bag before surveying the regulars. A quick glance tells him that Sandy is absent, much to his disappointment, but poetry boy is there, with only one book in front of him. 

Well, he supposes, now is as good a time as any. 

Courfeyrac gets up and walks over with an easy smile, poetry boy looking up in surprise at him. 

“Hi,” Courfeyrac holds out a hand, which poetry boy takes with an eyebrow raised in mild confusion. But he doesn’t look terrified, so that’s something, at least. “I’m Courfeyrac.” 

“Jehan.” The boy replies in a light tone, gesturing to the seat across from him with a relaxed hand, Courfeyrac restraining his grin at being invited to sit. There’s something about Jehan’s aura that is gentle and kind, yet he strikes Courfeyrac as the type of person he wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, that’s for sure. Sounds like the kind of person Courfeyrac would like as his friend. 

“I’m guessing you’re reading Literature?” Courfeyrac asks with a nod at the book, remembering afternoons where Jehan was not visible behind the books he’d managed to accumulate on his desk. Courfeyrac didn’t even though a library could stock that much poetry. 

“Yes, second year,” he smiles warmly. “You?”

“Medicine. First year.” 

“Oh, that’s tough.” Jehan winces sympathetically, and Courfeyrac laughs. This is people’s usual reaction to medical students, and Courfeyrac’s as well, if he’s totally honest. “My friend Ferre is studying medicine too. What do you think so far?” 

“I like Lamarque, certainly.” He begins with a casual shrug. (Even if he doesn’t think that Lamarque especially likes him). 

“He’s a big favourite amongst the students. Often helps us set up rallies and the like.” 

“Oh, cool. He’s definitely better than my roommate’s main professor, Javert.” 

“The law teacher?”

“Mmm," Courfeyrac nods, “I've never heard a good thing about him.” 

“Neither have I.” Jehan laughs with a shake of his head which causes his blond waves to bounce happily. 

Courfeyrac asks about the book Jehan was reading, and sets loose a waterfall of comments and criticisms of the work which leaves Courfeyrac dearly wishing he’d taken Literature instead, and also slightly terrified about the quantity of information Jehan has stored in his head (which is unreal, the man is obviously a genius). He does have to reassure Jehan several times that he isn’t boring him, that in fact poetry is a lovely thing to discuss after weeks of only medicine and law filtering into his life. 

When Jehan looks at his watch and gasps, Courfeyrac almost drags him back into his seat to hear more about William Blake, and barely restrains himself, only his mother’s voice in his head telling him that it’d be rude to manhandle someone’s he’s just become acquainted with.

“Shit, I’m late to meet Montparnasse.” Jehan exclaims as he leaps up, Courfeyrac not recognising the name but assuming that they’re someone special by the way that the tips of Jehan’s ears have reddened, and the slight turn up of Jehan’s lips as he says their name. “I’m terribly sorry to leave you,” he continues with an apologetic shrug which Courfeyrac merely smiles at. 

“It's no problem,” he replies, and Jehan shoves a piece of paper across the table to him, on which is scrawled many lines of book names, and a phone number. 

“You should read these. I think you’d like them.” He says in explanation, and Courfeyrac is beginning to read it intently when Jehan, in the midst of packing up his stuff, gasps. 

“Oh!” Courfeyrac frowns at him, and receives a wide grin in response. 

“You should come to our meeting tonight!” He says happily, and for some reason Courfeyrac doesn’t have the heart to say no. “Come to the Musain cafe at eight. We’d love to have you there, Courfeyrac.” 

Courfeyrac wonders mildly who ‘we’ is, and why he’s agreeing, but finds himself nodding and smiling nonetheless. 

“Cool, I’ll see you there.” He says, and then Jehan is gone with a wave. 

[][][]

At five minutes to eight, Courfeyrac enters the Musain, deciding it’s better to be early rather than late (for once in his life. If Lamarque saw him now he’d have trouble believing it). Enjolras had left the apartment at 7.30, muttering angrily about Professor Javert, so Courfeyrac was spared the guilt of leaving his roommate to go to Jehan’s meeting after turning down so many offers from him, including the one tonight, to whatever gathering Enjolras and co were doing that evening. 

When the first thing that Courfeyrac sees inside the Musain is Enjolras standing on a table, he wonders if he’s come to the right place. He stops in the doorway, staring at his roommate, who is gesturing at a tall, thoughtful looking ginger man holding a large red box. 

He lets out a choked noise close to laughter, capturing the attention of Enjolras, who looks at him funnily before bursting into a grin. The grin, more than anything else, is what startles Courfeyrac. 

“Courfeyrac!” He calls, waving slightly and hopping off the table to meet him. “You came.” 

“I didn’t realise this is what I was coming to.” He admits guiltily, making Enjolras’s smile falter slightly. “Jehan told me to be here.” 

But Enjolras merely laughs when he says this, and begins to walk back over to the large group of people assembled near the back of the cafe, all of them chattering happily. Courfeyrac finds himself following.

“Hey!" Jehan pushes through the crowd of people and appears in front of Courfeyrac with a large grin lighting up his features. “I told you I’d get him here.” Jehan tells Enjolras happily, and Courfeyrac gasps in mock (or actual, he can’t quite decide) betrayal. 

“You two are friends?” He asks incredulously as Enjolras shoves a magically-conjured drink into his hand. Jehan simply winks back, before Enjolras disappears from his side and is standing on the table again. Well, at least Enjolras’s flair for a touch of the dramatic is a constant in his life. 

He raises his glass above his head in a kind of solemn toast and silence falls instantly across his assembled friends, Courfeyrac realising why when the aura that Enjolras is sending out reaches him. It’s anger, yet controlled and meaningful. It’s respect for those around him, and a promise for something better. 

Courfeyrac has no fucking clue how Enjolras is managing to tell him that with a stare, but he wonders for the fifth time this week why he’s not in love with the man.

Then, Enjolras begins to speak. 

“Les Amis, welcome!” He says, and Courfeyrac suddenly realises where he recognises the red box from, having tripped over it many times when on his daily dash across the apartment. Les Amis d’ABC. The box that Enjolras treats as though it’s made of gold, and cause of many an argument about why does Enjolras leave his things everything and well then shouldn't Courfeyrac just be more careful. 

“First, I’d like you to welcome our newest member, and my roommate, Courfeyrac.” 

It takes a few seconds of people smiling at him for Courfeyrac to remember that that’s him, and then vaguely wonders whether he’s just accidentally joined a satanic cult. 

But, to his delight, Les Amis turns out to be a social justice group, intent on making the world a better place in whatever way it can. Enjolras tells him (the way Enjolras talks makes him feel as though he is speaking solely to Courfeyrac, just as they discuss homework over coffee in the lazy, lecture-free mornings) about the volunteer program the Les Amis organise and fundraise for with the help of the ginger man, who Courfeyrac learns is called Feuilly, and about the marginally successful (before it just got violent) protest they went to last week, which explains why Enjolras came home delighted, but with a black eye.

As he continues, and as many puzzle pieces slot into place, Courfeyrac decides that he’s about as observant as a brick wall for not noticing that his roommate is one of the best public speakers the world has ever seen. He knew the guy was angry (that escapes no-one’s notice), but didn’t realise he was doing something about it. 

When Enjolras stops talking forty minutes later and climbs down from the table, chatter erupts again as swiftly as it had stopped, leaving Courfeyrac speechless as to what he just witnessed. Everyone else seems perfectly used to Enjolras turning into some kind of articulate superhero, but Courfeyrac, who has seen him at three in the morning, high on caffeine and working on some super long law paper, is still in some state of shock.

“So, what did you think?” Enjolras’s face appears in front of him, the most genuine grin Courfeyrac has ever seen plastered there, lighting up his bright blue eyes. The smile is infectious, and Courfeyrac returns it. 

“That was fantastic.” He tells him honestly, and is pleased to see the tiniest of blushes on Enjolras’s cheeks. “I can’t believe I didn’t realise you did this,” he adds. “This is brilliant, this whole thing.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras says. “We’re very proud of our efforts.” 

“You should be. That volunteering thing you've set up sounds amazing.” 

“You’re welcome to join, I’m sure we can find a shift you can do.” Enjolras tells him, then jumps, remembering something suddenly. “Come meet everyone.” He says, and before Courfeyrac can do anything he’s shaking hands with Feuilly. 

Then with a smiling man called Joly, and then he’s hugged by and introduced to Bahorel who welcomes him enthusiastically, as though he’d known Courfeyrac for years. Courfeyrac curses himself for being so bloody stubborn and not coming before. 

Then he curses himself to the moon and back as Enjolras practically shoves him in front of a sandy-haired boy. No, not just a sandy-haired boy. Sandy himself. 

“HI!” Courfeyrac exclaims loudly, perhaps a little too loudly as Sandy’s smile is nervous, his head slightly bowed. “I’m Courfeyrac,” he continues regardless, even though he’s guessing that Sandy already knows this. Lamarque makes sure of that. 

“Combeferre.” Sandy replies in an absolutely gorgeous voice that makes Courfeyrac go a little weak at the knees. How has he never made the effort to talk to him before? How how how how how? “I don’t know if you recognise me, but-“ 

“You take Lamarque’s lecture too.” Courfeyrac finishes for him with a wink, smiling at the delighted surprise which lights up Combeferre’s face. 

“I didn’t think you’d recognise me.” He admits with the tiniest of shrugs, and a blush to his cheeks. 

“You think I’d miss someone as cute as you?” Courfeyrac teases, and wants to take the words back immediately when Combeferre promptly chokes on his drink. Shit. 

The blush spreads right across Combeferre’s face, and Courfeyrac tries to think of something to say, but finds that his usually ready supply of conversation topics have dried up when faced with Combeferre. Bloody typical. 

Speechless for pretty much the first time in his life, Courfeyrac desperately tries to think of ways to salvage the conversation, his eyes falling on Enjolras.

Besides him, Enjolras is watching the conversation eagerly, but looks disappointed when he catches the awkwardness building between the two, and Courfeyrac shoots a desperate look at his roommate, who then coughs loudly and announces that they’d better go home or they’ll miss the last metro. 

Courfeyrac hurries goodbyes to the assembled group, who wave him cheerily out the door before him and Enjolras are walking home in the cold autumn air, despite the fact that all that Courfeyrac wants to do is go back inside and talk to Combeferre. 

[][][]

“So, you fancy coming out with my friends again?” Enjolras asks as they enter their dorm, having just caught the last metro and very thankful for it, as the rain had started almost the second they’d stepped outside the Musain. 

There’s a teasing glint to his eyes which makes Courfeyrac chuckle, and shake his head at his own previous stubbornness. 

“I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know why I didn’t come out with you before,” he laughs, shoving Enjolras’s shoulder when he pulls a face at him. Enjolras, who had been in the middle of undoing his laces, falls against the wall and raises his eyebrows in mock offence. “Coffee?” Courfeyrac continues as he heads through into the kitchen area, shrugging off his dripping coat onto the sofa (a habit which he knows Enjolras absolutely hates, but can’t seem to stop himself from doing) as he goes. 

“I shouldn’t.” Enjolras says weakly from where he’s locking the door, a sentence which translates to Courfeyrac as ‘yes, please’. Enjolras loves coffee like Courfeyrac loves Star Wars. 

Once the coffee is made, which takes a while, because their kettle is shit, they both sink tiredly into the sofa drinking it quite happily, before Enjolras decides to turn the conversation back to the last disaster of a few minutes at the Musain, the memory of which Courfeyrac was hoping to repress until his dying days. 

“So, you liked my friends then?” He asks cheekily, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes before reluctantly admitting that yes, he did like them. They were kind, enthusiastic and friendly. Everything Courfeyrac himself aspires to be. 

“I can’t believe you and Jehan teamed up against me.” He tells Enjolras, who instead of looking guilty merely shrugs. 

“Never trust Prouvaire.” They both chuckle at that. 

“So, you know Combeferre?” Enjolras asks, and Courfeyrac leans back against the sofa with a groan, expecting the question but nonetheless hoping it wouldn’t come. 

“He's in my lectures with Lamarque.” Courfeyrac replies conservatively, but Enjolras just rolls his eyes. 

“Tell me something I don’t know.” 

“When hippos get stressed, their sweat turns red.” Courfeyrac replies with a smirk, the most Enjolras-like answer he can think of, and laughs loudly when Enjolras gives him a glare that would have put his mother to shame. However, after two months of receiving it, Courfeyrac has become more immune to the Glare™, so he simply gives Enjolras his most charming grin. 

“I actually did know that.” Enjolras huffs almost childishly, Courfeyrac raising his eyebrows, very much doubting that fact. “It was on a documentary I watched with Ferre a few weeks ago.” Enjolras continues, a small smirk ghosting his face when Courfeyrac blushes at the conversation’s unfortunate return to Combeferre. 

“Do you like him?” Enjolras asks bluntly, which causes Courfeyrac to stand up immediately, knowing that sadly, by doing so, he’s only confirming his roommate’s suspicions. He is noping the heck out of this conversation. “Courf!” 

When Enjolras shouts after him, Courfeyrac simply holds up his hand in a gesture which he hopes will show his roommate his desire not to continue their chat, but sadly only hears a bark of laughter behind him. 

Courfeyrac slams his bedroom door behind him, hoping that the residents of the flat below them are out, and only gets one more shout from Enjolras. 

“He's bi, by the way!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and thank you for reading and to everyone who left kudos/commented :-) to appleplants, if you are reading this, I hope your essay went well!

Combeferre always meets with Jehan for lunch on Wednesdays (a tradition that started thanks to Joly and his insistence that Combeferre remember to eat, as he was prone to forgetting), but currently waits alone in their favourite cafe near the florist’s where the poet works. He frowns as he checks his watch; they meet at 12, but now it is quarter past and Combeferre is getting worried, as Jehan has never been late before. 

In front of him on the worn wooden table, a large bowl of chilli and carrot soup, Combeferre’s usual order, grows colder next to the avocado sandwiches always chosen by Jehan. His phone is void of messages, and the waitress who brought over the food as soon as Combeferre entered (the pair are regulars and expected every week), joins him in glancing worriedly at the door. 

At twenty past, Combeferre is getting more worried and wonders why Jehan is not in possession of a watch. He thinks half-heartedly that maybe Jehan has lent his watch to Courfeyrac, as he joked to Combeferre that he would, but dismisses the thought as he feels the blush return in full vengeance, having practically never left his cheeks since Sunday night. 

Enjolras, bless him, had avoided all mention of Courfeyrac when in the presence of Combeferre in the days since, but was doing so rather awkwardly, shushing their friends whenever one of them happened to mention his roommate. Bahorel in particular had rolled his eyes enormously at Enjolras’s obvious attempts not to embarrass Combeferre, but Combeferre had, of course, been embarrassed anyway. 

And why shouldn't he be? 

The adorable, gorgeous guy who Combeferre has liked for weeks actually told him he was cute, and all Combeferre could do was choke on his drink. He doesn’t blame himself exactly, he thinks that’s a pretty reasonable reaction to hearing something you didn’t expect, but also does blame himself because why couldn’t he just flirt like a normal person? If Courfeyrac had said something like that to, say, Jehan, well, Jehan would have just flirted right back. 

But Combeferre, stupid Combeferre, had gone redder than a tomato and forced Courfeyrac away. 

He tries not to think about the flash of irritation that had stirred in his chest thinking about Jehan and Courfeyrac flirting, even if the idea was only in his head. 

In the two lectures since Sunday, Courfeyrac has gone straight up to his desk without even glancing at Combeferre (although not that Combeferre would know. He’s been glaring at the floor as soon as the door opens. Joly’s asked him what he thinks the floor did to deserve it).

When half-past hits, Combeferre gives up and begins to eat his soup quietly, pulling a book out of his bag for company in replacement of Jehan. 

[][][]

The waitress kindly boxes Jehan's sandwiches for Combeferre as he pays for the abandoned lunch, the clock reading one. He figures they’ll make a good snack later, and steps out into the sunshine at the exact moment that his phone pings with a message. 

From: Jehan

< Ferre I’m so sorry! I completely forgot! >

Combeferre, who has been unable to hold a grudge his entire life, simply smiles and steps to the side of the pavement to reply. 

To: Jehan

< It’s okay. I’ve got your sandwiches if you want them. >

From: Jehan

< Meet me by the campus seal in ten? >

Combeferre replies in the positive and sets back off to meet Jehan, wondering if he’s going to start on the hip joint essay that evening or whether it can wait until tomorrow. Probably tomorrow. 

[][][]

Upon reaching the seal ten minutes after they’d agreed to meet (the walk took longer than he anticipated), Combeferre sits himself down on the grass and wonders what has possibly taken over Jehan, who is nowhere to be seen within the crowds of students. 

With a sigh he starts to read his book again, ignoring the textbook which appears to glare at him as he shoves it down to the bottom of the bag. However, a few pages in, a figure abruptly sits down besides him, and he grins, turning to greet Jehan with questioning about his friend’s whereabouts. 

But it isn’t Jehan who grins back. 

“Hi, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac’s smile is almost shy, bordering upon apologetic, and Combeferre’s own smile falters before he works out how to speak again. 

“Hi,” he replies weakly, almost breathlessly (what is he, some young heroine from a Victorian romance novel?) and tries earnestly not to stare at the way the sunshine lights up Courfeyrac’s dark curls. 

He fails. 

“Listen, this may seem a bit forward,” Courfeyrac starts with an almost playful shrug, causing Combeferre’s stomach to do a tiny backflip, “but I was just heading to lunch, would you like to join me?” 

Combeferre stares at him in shock, and is only jolted out of his reverie by the worried look that begins to cross Courfeyrac’s features at his lack of response. 

“I just ate,” he blurts, immediately cursing his manners (which he seems to have left at home this morning) as Courfeyrac’s face falls, but then adds: “but I have some sandwiches in my bag if you'd like them.” 

Courfeyrac gives him a funny look, but Combeferre is already fishing Jehan’s lunch out of the pocket of his rucksack and handing them over. Courfeyrac frowns, causing a few butterflies, before his face splits into a wide grin. 

“Are you the type of person that regularly carries around full meals in their rucksacks?” Courfeyrac asks as he unwraps the sandwiches, smiling even more broadly and making Combeferre blush (stupidly). 

Stupid blushing. Stupid too-attractive cute boy (not really. Courfeyrac is anything but stupid, Combeferre is just in a vaguely vindictive mood). Stupid Combeferre. 

“Not regularly, no,” Combeferre manages to reply. “I’m glad I did today, though.” 

“Me too. That essay, spend all morning on it, and it nearly killed me. I swear, this course is going to be the death of me.” 

“Which one?” Courfeyrac laughs at this, and Combeferre has to stop himself punching the air with his fist in victory when he hears the sound, a tinkling that seems to ring through the busy courtyard. 

“I can’t even remember!” Courfeyrac declares, shaking his head as his stomach gives a massive rumble as if to agree. He blushes and takes another quick bite of avocado. “I feel like my head is about to drop off.” 

“How do people even remember that much information?”

“Who knows,” Courfeyrac laughs. “I think Lamarque gets more disappointed in me every test.” 

“He likes you,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows in doubt. “He does.” Combeferre insists. “He doesn't know anyone else’s name.” 

“He only knows mine because I turn up late.” Courfeyrac says. 

“Well… perhaps,” Combeferre admits, smiling when Courfeyrac chuckles. “But he never seems angry.” 

“Not like when that tosser Claquesous didn’t hand in any work for two weeks?” Courfeyrac replies, and they both wince at the memory. 

“Have you ever considered..” Combeferre drifts off, worried his question is too forward, but luckily Courfeyrac only grins at him.

“Not being late?” he finishes, and Combeferre shrugs apologetically to let him know that that’s exactly what he meant, although perhaps not quite as harshly. Courfeyrac chuckles. “That’s what Enjolras says too, but somehow I just can’t bring myself to set an alarm for the morning.” 

“Enjolras would probably do it for you if you ask,” Combeferre tells him. “I’m amazed he hasn’t already.”

“He keeps telling me I need to learn from my mistakes,” Courfeyrac laughs.

“That does sound like Enjolras.” Combeferre agrees. 

Combeferre braves asking him what he thought about the Les Amis meeting, and asks him to join them that weekend, and is honestly only slightly (slightly!) pleased when Courfeyrac is so animatedly discussing something with him that he actually puts down his sandwich to gesture excitedly, both hands flying, to prove his point more. 

However, their laughter suddenly stops when another voice joins in. 

“Courfeyrac, are you eating my lunch?” Jehan asks, finally appearing in front of them with a frown on his face.   
Courfeyrac’s head snaps around to Combeferre, face glaring but eyes amused. Combeferre grins sheepishly at Jehan, who rolls his eyes and sits down, taking the other sandwich off of Courfeyrac, whose eating had been stilled by the conversation. Courfeyrac mouths ‘traitor’ at him. 

“You were very late,” Combeferre tells him, an almost scolding tone creeping into his words, but Jehan huffs, ignoring him, passive-aggressively beginning to eat his late lunch. 

“That doesn’t mean you can hand out my food to random pretty boys!” Jehan retorts, but Combeferre ignores the jibe, rolling his eyes and definitely not focusing on the way that Courfeyrac smirks out of the corner of his gaze. 

“I paid for it, Jehan, I think that gives me the right to do whatever I want with it.” He concludes, and next to him Courfeyrac smiles and winks. 

“Thanks, Combeferre.” 

“No problem.” 

When Courfeyrac has finished his sandwich, he glances up at the clock on the wall of the quad and swears loudly, jumping to a standing position faster than any human should be able to. 

“What?” Combeferre asks him worriedly, and Courfeyrac flashes him an apologetic grin. 

“I’m late for work!” He explains hastily, picking up his backpack as Combeferre laughs. 

“Do you own a watch?” Combeferre asks. Courfeyrac shrugs, already beginning to pace backwards with a hand waving goodbye. A second glance at the clock sends Courfeyrac’s expression into fully fledged panic, and he swears again. 

“I’ll see you later!” He yells as he begins to break into a run, tossing the words over his shoulder and leaving Jehan and Combeferre sighing in a contented silence. 

Combeferre lets the quiet last until Jehan has finished eating, then fixes his friend with a resolute glare, hoping that Jehan will politely pretend not to know that Combeferre is useless at holding a grudge. 

“Stop looking at me like that, Ferre.” He says shortly, earning himself only an eye roll from his friend. 

“What were you doing?” Combeferre asks softly, forehead creasing in confusion when Jehan blushes, his lips trying desperately not to spread into a grin. “Or should I say who?” Combeferre adds dryly, chuckling when Jehan’s head snaps around to him with a startled look plastered on his features. 

“I…” He splutters. “We just went out for coffee.” He adds decisively, sticking his tongue out at his friend.

“If you say so,” Combeferre teases, leaning out the way of the hand that Jehan tries to playfully shove him with. “Who are they?" 

“Someone new.” Jehan says, blushing even more furiously, Combeferre hoping his own red cheeks when faced with a flirtatious Courfeyrac were not that obvious, because otherwise he’s going to have to consider moving to Tibet to escape his embarrassment (a minor but necessary overreaction).

“Do I get to meet them?” Combeferre asks gently, curious but not wanting to push his friend. 

“Soon," Jehan laughed, looking wistfully at the sky in a way that makes Combeferre’s heart ache slightly. “Soon." 

[][][]

Combeferre finds himself pondering the extraordinary existence of Courfeyrac all the way back to his room, marvelling in the sunshine over things that a couple of weeks ago would have just been regular. But now, attached to Courfeyrac and the affections taking over Combeferre’s heart, these things were astonishing and wonderful. 

For example, the eternal smile that turned up lip and lighted bright, soft brown eyes, the warm caramel of his skin and the darkness of the curls that nothing seemed to be able to control. 

Combeferre bumps into a lamppost in his distracted state and then begins walking again as if nothing had happened, not noticing the bemused looks sent his way by other pedestrians. 

The intelligence gleaming in his words and smile and the cheeriness that he simply seemed to exude from every pore, lighting up every room he walked in. 

And, so maybe Combeferre was a little in love. Just a smidgen. 

His phone beeps with a message just as he gets in the door, night beginning to fall on the city after a long but enjoyable afternoon of smoothing over the last arrangements for the organisation of the posters they were hoping to put up over the weekend with an anxious Enjolras and a perfectly calm (as always) Feuilly, who had reassured them that he’d be able to copy said posters with the printer in the art building (Enjolras had sworn off the one in the Humanities building, claiming it must be a capitalist machine which refused to print liberal resources after it had eaten the original copy of the poster. Combeferre thought he was being a little overdramatic, but had decided wisely not to comment. Sometimes these thing were simply not worth it).

Combeferre pulls the phone out of his pocket and frowns when he reads the message. 

From: Unknown number 

< Thanks again for lunch. It was much appreciated :-) >

To: Unknown number

< Sorry, I think you must have the wrong person. >

He's surprised when a reply comes back almost instantly, the person on the other end must have almost superhuman typing powers. 

From: Unknown number

< Is this not Combeferre? >

To: Unknown number

< Yes, it is. >

Surely it could only be one person?? Combeferre considers sitting down as he’s feeling a little faint, but then scalds himself for being ridiculous. 

From: Unknown number

< It’s Courfeyrac. Sorry, should have introduced myself sooner :-) >

This having being established, Combeferre allows himself a little artistic license with the contact name, figuring that no one else sees his phone. Then he changes Enjolras’s contact to ‘Angry Man in Red.’

To: Perfect Human Being

< It’s okay. And it’s no problem for lunch, Jehan didn’t deserve the sandwiches after ditching me. >

From: Perfect Human Being

< I’m sure you don’t mean that. He probably had a very good reason ;-) >

To: Perfect Human Being

< He was on a date. And what would you know about it? >

Combeferre, curiosity taking the better of him, decides to take the punt asking Courfeyrac, who might know more about the situation. Enjolras has always said that Combeferre is too nosy for his own good. 

From: Perfect Human Being

< Oh, nothing for you to worry your pretty head about ;-) >

There it was again, the winking face and the flirtation which made Combeferre’s head spin and his cheeks do that stupid blushing. 

From: Perfect Human Being

< Crap, Ferre, I’d better love you and leave you. >

From: Perfect Human Being

< Shit, is it okay if I call you that? >

From: Perfect Human Being

< I need to go. Late to meet E. >

From: Perfect Human Being

< Byeeeeeee. >

All of these texts come through in about five seconds, leaving Combeferre staring at his phone in wonder as the pings fill the otherwise silent lobby, which Combeferre then realises he’s been standing in for a good five minutes. He shakes his head at his own stupidity, although he’s smiling fondly at the screen, and begins to start up the stairs. 

To: Perfect Human Being

< You can call me Ferre, that’s fine :-) >

That’s if fine meant that it had caused his heart to pound in his chest for a good thirty seconds and he had yet to calm down completely. And an emoji? What was he thinking? Combeferre rarely used emojis, especially with people he had not been texting for long. 

To: Perfect Human Being

< Tell Enjolras I told him not to kill you. But perhaps you should invest in a watch. >

A reply comes (finally, but it’s not like he was waiting) just before midnight, when Combeferre is up late reading, after having changed all his contacts in a spur of distracted creativity, unwilling to let himself put that much focus on Courfeyrac, and also unable to put down his phone with the desire of a response. 

From: Perfect Human Being

< A sensible person would. But one of those I am not. >

 

[][][]

Combeferre wakes the next morning in a stellar mood, the sun shining and the birds tweeting outside his window. Remembering the previous evening’s conversation with Courfeyrac, he checks his phone, and is slightly disappointed to see only the one message.

From: Tiny Scary Poet 

< Meet me at the library at 2? I have a lunch date ( :-0) this morning and I’ll need to tell you all about it :-D much excite >

Combeferre replies quickly in the positive and eats some breakfast quickly, having overslept and realising he’s only got limited time for his project that morning. Joly is sprawled unconscious on the sofa, reeking of smoke and alcohol and Combeferre gently sets a glass of water on the coffee table besides his roommate’s head along with a few painkillers for when he wakes up. He can imagine that Joly’s hangover headache is not going to be a delicate thing, as he’s seen Joly almost drink Bahorel, a man twice his height, under the table on several occasions. 

Despite his worries about the pressing time for the morning (thoughts of his essay have gone completely out of the window with the newfound distractions of the day) Combeferre makes sure he’s had enough coffee and showered before leaving the apartment, obeying the strict list of instructions Joly had taped to his bedroom mirror. Joly did not earn his new contact name (‘The Reason that Combeferre is breathing’) for nothing, and Combeferre greatly appreciated it. 

He checks himself in the mirror and is happy to see that for once he looks mildly presentable, his hair lying flat and everything. 

Right. And so the mission begins. 

[][][]

True to his word to Jehan, Combeferre arrives at the library promptly at two, and runs up the stairs enthusiastically, pleased with his morning and excited to see Jehan, who would probably be buzzing after his date with mystery-person. There were not many things that intrigued Combeferre quite more than love, who, being slightly in love himself, wished this wonderful feeling upon on everyone. 

Jehan had Snapchatted him a picture of his outfit before he left, a blindingly colourful ensemble that let Combeferre know that Jehan was indeed deeply in love, and Combeferre was happy for his friend, if not a little apprehensive to meet someone with the potential to break Jehan’s heart, someone, who it seems, is standing by Jehan’s regular table with his back to Combeferre. Jehan is grinning from ear to ear, eyes wide in awe. 

Combeferre is about to wave in greeting when Jehan’s beau moves to take a seat and Combeferre realises who it is. That’s when he just stops dead in his place and can’t seem to move for the weight which is crushing his shoulders. 

His heart sinks as Courfeyrac sits down next to Jehan, and breaks a little bit when Jehan laughs at something that Courfeyrac says. Then a little bit more when Courfeyrac’s curls fall over his forehead when he looks down at the book spread on the desk in front of him.

Combeferre looks into his pocket, where a newly purchased watch rests neatly in the lining of the jacket, glinting at him as though it knew what would happen, and feels a sob rise up in his chest. He bites his lip sharply, and winces. 

Then he promptly turns and leaves the library with a tightness gripping his breath. When he gets outside it’s raining, and it almost makes him not notice that his cheeks are already wet. Almost. 

He takes it back. He wishes love upon absolutely no one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :-))))

Courfeyrac is most certainly not watching his phone. Honestly. 

Because, like, it doesn’t count if it’s not the focus of his vision, right? The focus of his vision, the thing he’s actually watching, is the episode of Parks and Recreation playing on his laptop. It doesn’t matter that Leslie’s confession of love that usually makes him cry his eyes out is barely registering in his brain at that particular second because his phone lights up and he practically dives across the room, tangled up in his duvet covers. The resulting crash is rather loud, but Courfeyrac quickly scrambles up. 

From: Jehan

< Is Enjolras still alive? He’s not replying to my texts. >

Courfeyrac tries not let himself be too disappointed, because, come on, it’s lovely to hear from Jehan. It’s just that Jehan was not really the person that he wanted to reply to him. He clicks into the chat which, buzzing a few days ago, is now dead silent and has been weighing on his chest. 

He scrolls back to the last response he got. 

From: <3 FERRE <3

< Tell Enjolras I told him not to kill you. But perhaps you should invest in a watch. >

Then he sighs and reads all the one-sided messages since, feeling a sense of sullen, heavy disappointment build up with every word. 

To: <3 FERRE <3

< A sensible person would. But one of those I am not. >

To: <3 FERRE <3

< Hey, how was your day? >

To: <3 FERRE <3

< Do you want to get coffee? >

And then, the most recent one, sent last night. 

To: <3 FERRE <3

< Combeferre? >

Courfeyrac felt he’d done quite well in all, only sending the three, but that doesn’t lessen the blow any less. Combeferre is avoiding him, he knows that from the way that Combeferre had sprinted out of the lecture hall the previous morning before Courfeyrac could so much as glance in his direction. If only he knew why the sudden change of heart. 

He sighs and sinks down onto the floor of his room, clutching the phone sadly in his hand and then laughing slightly at himself. Then he lets out another sigh. 

There comes a loud, sudden crash from the next room which reminded Courfeyrac of the message that had made him jump to his phone in the first place. He types out a response quickly.

To: Jehan

< Just about. He’s got this long essay due in next week. >

To: Jehan

< He doesn’t even stop writing when I remind him we’re putting up the posters tomorrow. He just grunts and goes back to typing furiously away. >

Courfeyrac gets up and slowly peers out of his bedroom door, seeing only a pile of blond curls over the top of the sofa and the sound of laptop keys being hit with fervour bordering on violent. He grimaces then leans back inside as his phone pings again. 

From: Jehan

< Oh dear. Give him until six, and then try and get him out. If he doesn’t, text me and I’ll bring backup. >

To: Jehan

< By backup I assume you mean Bahorel? >

From: Jehan

< Yes >

From: Jehan

< Has he eaten anything? >

Courfeyrac lists all the things that he knows for certain that Enjolras has consumed within the last 24 hours, and doesn't come up with that much. He sends the sparse list to Jehan, who simply sends back three exclamation marks and a promise to bring around some cookies later. 

Courfeyrac throws his phone back on his bed and glances between Ben Wyatt and the door to where his roommate sits probably starving and tired. The choice, it seems, is obvious. As much as he loves Ben, he may have to betray him just this once.

Still, he realise he may have picked the more dangerous option when he steps over the threshold and hears a low threat. 

“Go away, Courfeyrac.” 

Courfeyrac sighs as loud as he can and shuts his bedroom door behind him resolutely, before moving over and going into the kitchen side of the main room, feeling Enjolras’s gaze burning into the back of his head. 

“Courfeyrac?” 

“Yes?” Courfeyrac replies sweetly, pulling a packet of pasta out of the cupboard. 

“Did you not hear what I said?” 

Yeah, Enjolras is most definitely in one of his moods. He should ask Jehan to bring the double amount of cookies.

“I did, I just decided to ignore it.” He calls over his shoulder cheerfully as he puts the kettle on, and hears Enjolras mirror his own previous sigh. 

“You’re not going to go away, are you?” 

Courfeyrac is slightly proud of him that he’s caught on so early to Courfeyrac’s intentions. Last time, it had taken ten minutes of Enjolras insisting that he be left in peace before Courfeyrac had stopped being yelled at. The time before that it had taken a couple of hours. 

He’s also rather worried about the increasing frequency of his necessary interference’s with Enjolras’s daily routine. And about the number of empty coffee cups on the table in front of his friend. 

The kettle boils and he pours the water into a pan over the stove, resisting the urge to hum as he does so, still feeling the occasional glare from Enjolras being sent in his direction. Whilst the pasta cooks, he finds tomato sauce in the back of the fridge (it’s still in date, but god only knows how long it had been there), as well as washing up two bowls. 

He grimaces at the general state of the kitchen, vowing to make a list of chores that between them they need to do. This was the best way to ensure Enjolras’s cooperation, as the man had never, in the short space of time that Courfeyrac had known him, resisted a scheduled list. 

Whilst the pasta cooks Courfeyrac gently stacks cups back in cupboards as quietly as he can, wincing every time the crockery clinks in the otherwise tense silence of their rooms. Finally, the ten minutes are up and he allows himself to be as loud as he likes when stirring the sauce into the pan, and dishing up the pasta between the the two bowls. 

He moves over to the sofa and plonks himself down next to his roommate happily, shoving a bowl and fork into Enjolras’s hands and then plucking the laptop from his lap. 

“Hey!” Enjolras protests, reaching for the item but unable to grab it due to having his hands full, which Courfeyrac grins at. 

“You’ll get it back once you’ve eaten,” Courfeyrac tells him as though he’s reprimanding a naughty child who wants his favourite stuffed animal back. 

Enjolras glares at him for a full thirty seconds before he admits defeat and takes a bite out of his overdue breakfast/lunch/dinner. 

Courfeyrac, satisfied, sits and eats his own pasta, making sure that Enjolras eats every bite. As soon as he’s done, he takes the bowl and makes a quick dash to the sink to replace it with a glass of water before Enjolras can return to his work. This is accepted more readily, and Courfeyrac is slightly proud in a weird, paternal sense. 

[][][]

At six o’clock, as promised, Courfeyrac throws Enjolras’s red coat over his head and yells, 

“We’re leaving!” He puts down a pair of shoes in front of his spluttering roommate, his own already done up and his hand in his pocket, ready to call Jehan, who is waiting at the bottom of the stairs in case Enjolras proves difficult. 

However, Enjolras surprises him. Once he’s got over his initial shock of being hit by his jacket, he gets ready for the outside world with only a slight huff of complaint, and follows Courfeyrac out of the door with only one longing glance backwards to his laptop and the Enjolras-shaped space on the sofa. 

“Have you learnt your lesson?” Courfeyrac teases with a grin as they begin to descend, frowning when Enjolras shrugs. 

“I finished my essay, and I’ve edited it through twice so I think that’s enough for now,” he says, almost conversationally, as though this is a feat that ordinary people can achieve on a Friday afternoon. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.

“Well done, Enjolras,” he says kindly, despite internally screaming about the piece of work he’s currently procrastinating. Regrets, so many of them. “So, exact plans for tomorrow?” He asks as an attempt to distract Enjolras, in case he turns the subject to Courfeyrac’s own work (and potentially Combeferre).

The distraction is a complete success; Enjolras lights up instantly, his shoulders lifting and his eyes bright. 

“We’re meeting outside the library at eight,” he begins, before being interrupted by Courfeyrac. 

“Eight?!” Courfeyrac asks incredulously. “Eight?” he repeats, the horror in his voice evident. “Have you ever met a university student?” Enjolras’s face falls.

“That’s what Feuilly said,” he admits quietly, and at this Courfeyrac laughs. 

“Feuilly is right,” he tells him, and Enjolras frowns before pulling out his phone and tapping away hurriedly. 

A moment later, Courfeyrac’s own phone pings and they reach the bottom of the stairs and see Jehan, who is in turn staring at a screen. Hearing their footsteps approaching, he looks up and frowns at Enjolras in shock. 

“You changed the meet time to nine-thirty?” He asks, and Courfeyrac turns to beam at a blushing Enjolras. 

Enjolras shrugs, despite Jehan’s utter confusion. 

“I thought you deserved a lie in,” he says defensively, and Jehan splutters in shock, gesturing wildly with the box of biscuits in his hand. 

“You’ve never let us have a lie in before,” he replies, and Enjolras blushes further, then gestures to Courfeyrac. 

“My roommate is quite sensible about most things,” Enjolras says. “I figured he might be right about this too.” 

Courfeyrac is so overjoyed that he could kiss him, but decides to go for the less forward hugging option. Enjolras hesitates for a second before hugging him gently back, and when they part Enjolras has a small smile on his face. 

Jehan raises his eyebrows at Courfeyrac. 

“Okay, who are you, and what did you do to Enjolras?” He asks with a laugh, and Enjolras shoves his shoulder gently. “Courfeyrac, are you a good influence on him?” 

Enjolras and Courfeyrac walk out the door, a bemused Jehan still pelting them with questions as he follows them. 

[][][]

The three end up at a local park, Enjolras fending off confused and meaningful inquiries about his health from their friends for most of the walk, all of them reacting the same as Jehan. 

“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal,” Enjolras complains as they all sit down on a bench overlooking the pond, sticking his hands in his pockets grumpily after hanging up on Joly. “I mean, I’m not that stubborn, am I?” 

Jehan and Courfeyrac share a glance, then quickly change the subject, earning themselves an eye roll from Enjolras, who nonetheless does not protest. 

Courfeyrac tells Jehan about the battered and beautiful Wordsworth collection he found in a small second hand bookshop the other day when rescuing Marius, who had got lost on his way to work. Jehan mentions off-handedly that Combeferre would love a place like that, and Courfeyrac lets Enjolras take over the conversation for a few minutes until his heart stops pounding (he really needs to sort himself out. Literally all that happened was Combeferre was mentioned). 

When Enjolras’s phone rings and Bahorel begins shouting at him about whether he’s eaten enough, Enjolras moves away to take the call and Courfeyrac is proud of the calm attempts that he makes at casual conversation with Jehan, who is seemingly oblivious to Courfeyrac’s complete inability to process thoughts when faced with mentions of Combeferre. That is, of course, until he sees a figure with sandy coloured hair appear about twenty metres down the path, walking gently with his head slightly bowed.

Courfeyrac stops mid sentence to stare at him, and Combeferre stares right back, frozen in the path with his arms full of books. Jehan turns, frowning, when Courfeyrac stops talking and, to Courfeyrac’s delight and horror (he can’t decide which is the stronger emotion), calls Combeferre over. 

“Ferre!” He yells happily, lifting a hand in a gentle wave. Courfeyrac sees Combeferre startle in panic, then he promptly turns and walks quickly back the way he came, rushing out of the park. 

Jehan turns back to Courfeyrac with confusion knotting his forehead. 

“What was that about?” He asks, and Courfeyrac merely shrugs, relieved and also stung. “That’s not like Ferre.”

“I’ve no idea,” he replies faintly and truthfully, before they both jump at Enjolras shouting something loudly down the phone at Bahorel. 

[][][]

At midnight, Courfeyrac cracks and sends one last text. 

To: <3 FERRE <3

< Would you come with me to lunch after putting up posters tomorrow? >

The reply, unexpected, which makes Courfeyrac dive out of bed again to reach it (he realises he must keep his phone closer to him, unless the floor is going to become his permanent home), comes in an hour later. 

From: <3 FERRE <3

< I don’t think that would be appropriate. I’m sorry. >

[][][]

Courfeyrac had fallen asleep confused, and wakes up in the same state much earlier than seems necessary, but the aching in his head. 

His eyes are only half open, and he’s vaguely aware of blinding light, the fact that he’s cold and the sound of someone yelling. 

He opens his eyes fully and sees the lights turned on, his covers on the floor and the figure of Enjolras. Angry, stressed, Enjolras. 

It’s too fucking early for this, he decides as he leaps out of bed regardless, shoving his roommate backwards by his chest. 

“I’ll be there in a second, Enjolras!” He announces as confidently as he can to the blond, who warns him that he’d better be ready soon or something bad would happen that Courfeyrac can’t quite bring himself to listen to. Courfeyrac practically slams his bedroom door shut behind him and begins to focus and register things in his life. 

He picks up the t-shirt and jeans he put out the previous evening, having predicted that he’d oversleep. Thank you, past Courfeyrac. His curtains are thrown open, messily and most likely done by an impatient Enjolras. A few textbooks sit on the chair, and he gasps involuntarily when he catches sight of his phone. Oh yeah, and there’s his heart smashed on the floor. 

Courfeyrac moves towards the shower noting to himself that his dramatic tendencies seem to be growing exponentially. 

[][][]

Despite Courfeyrac’s (somewhat-deliberate) sluggishness concerning the speed of his shower (he may try to be a good roommate, but Courfeyrac was understandably in a particularly petty mood that morning), him and Enjolras are the first ones at the agreed meeting spot, a cold corner of the central courtyard. There’s not a single person in sight. 

Enjolras shoots Courfeyrac various dirty looks in the awkward five minutes before Bousset turns up, as though it’s his personal fault the others are late, then things get even more awkward when Joly turns up with Combeferre, who resolutely refuses to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes despite various attempts. Enjolras, who seems to be outdoing himself in ways to get on Courfeyrac’s nerves, is seemingly oblivious to this, trying to engage them both in conversation at once, despite the glares being sent his way by Courfeyrac, but luckily Feuilly turns up with armfuls of posters and a grin which makes even Courfeyrac’s terrible mood lift. 

Thank goodness for Feuilly. 

Bahorel turns up sprinting furiously towards them with Jehan performing an elegant run-skip hybrid gaily behind him and suddenly posters are being thrust into Courfeyrac’s arms by Enjolras, who is muttering something about wasting precious seconds. 

Courfeyrac resists the urge to roll his eyes, but admits that at least Enjolras’s heart is in the right place. The posters deplore the action of college administration towards rapists, and Courfeyrac is just as furious about that as the next member of Les Amis. 

“We’ll pair up,” Enjolras announces, “one poster person with one stapler person.” 

Courfeyrac looks at the stapler people and feels a little flutter of hope when he realises that Combeferre is holding a stapler. This was obviously the doing of Enjolras (who Courfeyrac is beginning to suspect is not quite as oblivious as he previously thought, sneaky bastard), as he not-so-subtly tries to shove Combeferre in Courfeyrac’s direction. 

Courfeyrac is just beginning to think that yes, maybe they could just talk about whatever had gone wrong and run off happily into the sunset, when Combeferre grabs the arm of a bewildered Bousset, who is clutching posters, and walks off. Then Courfeyrac just kind of tries not to cry. 

A stapler-wielding Feuilly appears in front of him and smiles encouragingly, nodding the direction of the sector of the campus that Courfeyrac was assigned. 

“Shall we?” He asks, and Courfeyrac reiterates his earlier thought. 

Thank goodness for Feuilly. 

[][][]

“Did you design these?” Courfeyrac asks, gesturing to his full hands when they approach their first lamppost; the shrug he gets in response letting him know that yes, Feuilly did. “They’re really good.” He adds.

Feuilly shrugs again, a slight pink tinge to his cheeks, and staples the poster that Courfeyrac holds up. 

“I don’t know what you’d do without me,” he teases, making Courfeyrac chuckle. “The rest of you are way too academic for such dalliances as drawing.” 

“Oh, definitely. I’m a medical student, you wouldn’t even trust me to write the title on the poster,” Courfeyrac responds, being as he is the stereotypical doctor (in training) with dreadful handwriting. 

Feuilly laughs, corners of his eyes creasing happily. 

“You’re with Joly and Ferre in that boat,” he agrees, and Courfeyrac looks at the ground. They continue walking, and manage to put up a few more posters before Feuilly’s curiosity gets the better of him. 

“I’ve never seen him like he is with you,” Feuilly tells Courfeyrac gently, although this hardly makes him feel any better. He informs Feuilly as such, and Feuilly blushes and shakes his head. “No, I mean, he’s never acted so cautious.”

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows to suggest that Feuilly should really stop digging, as the hole is already pretty deep, when he continues, 

“He’s cautious because he likes you,” Feuilly says, making Courfeyrac stop in the act of lifting the poster. 

“I doubt that,” he replies as Feuilly staples the poster without breaking his gaze. It’s one of the more weird moments of Courfeyrac’s life, that’s for sure. 

“Why? I’ve never seen him like this before,” Feuilly says, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone. He guiltily already feels a bit better being able to tell someone. But was this such a wise choice? Feuilly had known Combeferre for years, would most likely take his side (and he was being ridiculous. Taking sides? As if they were a couple getting divorced).

Regardless, he opens the chat with Combeferre, not bothering to change the contact name and receiving a wink from Feuilly. 

He waits in bated silence, fidgeting nervously whilst Feuilly reads the texts, then is handed back the phone by his unnervingly composed new friend. Didn’t he know that that chain of texts had broken Courfeyrac’s heart?

“Well?” He asks eventually, and Feuilly shrugs. 

“That’s unlike Combeferre,” Feuilly says calmly, even though Courfeyrac, his hands shaking and clutching the remaining paper tightly, is the opposite of calm. “He’ll come around, whatever it is that’s bothering him.” 

The matter-of-fact way that Feuilly states this assuages Courfeyrac’s beating heart a little bit, and he even manages a weak smile in response. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, and Feuilly nods, his thick woollen hat slipping down over his forehead. He pushes it back up with a sigh. 

“I’m sure,” he moves to walk on, and Courfeyrac follows him, pocketing the phone with a renewed sense of hope. “Now, in the mean time, we’d better get these posters up, or Enjolras will have our heads.”

Courfeyrac doesn't argue with that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you so much for reading!

Combeferre slouches grumpily into the Musain late in the evening, relieved to even catch a glimpse of his friends after a long Sunday of tense work in his room. The effect seeing them has is almost magical, a lifting of the weights, which is ironic considering what they spend most of their time discussing. He smiles, his shoulders lifting, when he sees that Feuilly and Enjolras have already set up shop at their usual corner table, Joly and Bossuet collecting an alarming number of drinks from the bar. 

Feuilly waves excitedly upon seeing him, and Combeferre returns the gesture as he weaves through the small crowds of people in the dimly lit bar to drop down into the seat next to the redhead. The worn leather is surprisingly comfortable in comparison to his desk chair, although he supposes most things would be against that wooden monstrosity. His back is going to be hurting for days after this. 

“Hey,” Feuilly greets him with a smile, Combeferre smiling back. “How've you been, Ferre?’ 

Combeferre shrugs. It perfectly encapsulates what he’s feeling, and means less words, because words mean effort. 

“Busy,” he says, Joly agreeing with him with a loud ‘hear hear’ as he puts four glasses gingerly down on the table. Behind him, Bossuet is having difficulty coming over with only the one small glass, appearing to bump into most people in the bar. “We’ve been having lots of essays from Lamarque.” 

Enjolras nods, pulling nervously on the jackets of his sleeves, obviously anxious to get started and report on their progress. 

“Courfeyrac hasn’t left the kitchen table since we got back from the event yesterday,” he reports surprisingly calmly, checking his watch. “Except to go to work. That’s odd,” he frowns, “his shift should have finished by now.” 

Combeferre fiddles with a napkin aimlessly and ignores the sideways look that Feuilly gives him. 

Enjolras seems to want to start despite their missing members, begins to search in his bag for his notes, this being a meeting where they review the success of yesterday morning (well, that was the official excuse for the gathering, but what generally ends up happening is Bahorel challenging everyone to shots and then drinking the entire group, besides Joly, under the table in about an hour). Combeferre gives the meeting twenty minutes before it descends into purely drinking. 

Suddenly, Enjolras lets out an undignified squeak and lets his backpack fall back into his lap. 

“I forgot my notes,” he murmurs incredulously, curls drooping sadly (Combeferre makes a mental note to investigate whether the state of Enjolras’ hair is directly linked to his mood, because he’s seen a lot of evidence towards the positive). Joly pats his arm. 

“It’s okay, surely you know them?” Joly asks kindly, and Enjolras shakes his head, which causes the others to blink in surprise. He looks so forlorn they’re all kind of stumped for a second.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Combeferre suddenly remembers, fishing his phone out his jacket pocket, “you texted them to me, remember?” 

Enjolras lights up as Combeferre hands over his phone, and gives him a grateful smile. 

“Thank goodness for Ferre,” Bossuet raises his glass, and they all clink their drinks together happily, Combeferre blushing and muttering something about ‘it was Enjolras not me’. 

Next to him, Feuilly has folded the napkin into a dragon. Combeferre decides not to question it. 

Combeferre takes a long drink of his lemonade, wishing that he didn’t have an early morning meeting with his tutor the next day, which he was certain he could not turn up hungover to. The tutor, a stern man called Valjean, would probably not appreciate it. 

Enjolras, surprisingly, is silent, staring at Combeferre’s phone. His face is switching as though trying to suppress laughter, which instantly makes Combeferre suspicious. Had he discovered the text from his mother asking if he needed any clean socks sent to him? 

“Enjolras?” Feuilly asks, frowning concernedly. “Is everything alright?” 

Enjolras looks up in surprise, then smirks at Combeferre. He feels his stomach drop, vaguely thinking, ‘uh-oh’. Never in his life has the Enjolras-smirk been followed by something positive to Combeferre’s wellbeing. 

“Combeferre,” Enjolras draws his name out slowly, eyebrows raised. Feuilly looks between them as though he’s watching a fast paced tennis match. “why am I listed on your phone under ‘Angry Man in Red’?”

Combeferre shrugs gently, praying to gods that he doesn’t believe in that Enjolras doesn’t decide to scroll down the rest of his contacts. Displaying calm will make everyone else calm, right? That’s what he hopes. 

“It’s true,” he supplies, and the others laugh, but Enjolras is still smirking, a fact which makes Combeferre’s stomach do a backflip. 

“And who, pray tell, is ‘Perfect Human Being’?” Enjolras finishes, grinning scarily. 

The next few events happen very quickly. 

Combeferre dives across the table to retrieve his phone, but Enjolras, preempting his action, leans as back in his seat as possible and lifts the device out of reach. In his dash, Combeferre manages to knock Feuilly’s drink into his lap, causing the redhead to stand up, swear loudly and knock Bossuet off of his seat. Joly is torn between laughing and crying, and eventually decides to drag a furiously blushing Combeferre back into his seat, away from the cackling blond. 

“Alright!” Feuilly announces in the tone of an annoyed primary school teacher, picking Bossuet up off the floor. “Everyone sit down,” 

Everybody does, and even Enjolras looks slightly sheepish, still cradling the phone in his hand. 

“Who is it?” Joly asks eagerly, and Combeferre is now really wishing that he had an alcoholic drink in his hand. He is so, so not prepared for this. 

To try and indicate this to his friends, he lays his head down on the hard, wooden table, and feels a hand pat his hair. Most likely Bousset. 

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says. “We’re not going to shut up until you tell us.” 

Without lifting his head, Combeferre flips him off with both hands, and out of the corner of his eyes sees Feuilly chuckle. If only he could stay angry at Feuilly (an impossible feat failed at by the most stubborn of men), he’d flip him off too. 

“He’s right,” Joly says (traitor, Combeferre had relied on his roommate to be on his side), and Combeferre admits defeat, sitting up and frowning around at his eager friends. 

“Before I tell you,” he begins, rolling his eyes at the way they all sit up straighter in anticipation, “you should know that he’s taken and not interested in me.” 

Enjolras opens his mouth widely like he’s about to say something, probably something encouraging about ‘who wouldn’t want to date you, Ferre?’, if the indignant look on his face is anything to go by, but Combeferre holds up a hand, silencing him effectively. 

He sighs loudly, wishing that they’d all had a chance to drink a bit more before this point. 

“Courfeyrac,” he says, looking down at his hands. “It’s Courfeyrac."

Nobody says anything, and Combeferre is about to throw hands at the lack of support and comfort coming his way when he looks back up and sees most of his friends somehow suppressing laughter. 

Then he’s really about to fight them. Even Feuilly, who he’s pretty sure can do some kind of martial arts. 

“What?” he snaps, and Enjolras just smiles at him. Almost scarily, but Combeferre thinks he’s trying to be supportive. 

“Courfeyrac isn’t seeing anyone, Ferre,” Enjolras says quietly, which makes Combeferre frown. Next to him, Feuilly is sniggering, and he only just resists the temptation to elbow him. 

“Yeah, he’s seeing Jehan,” Combeferre adds confusedly. 

“Nah!” Bossuet pipes up, leaning over Joly eagerly to speak to Combeferre. “Jehan’s seeing that scary guy from my law class.” 

“What?!” Combeferre exclaims, swivelling his head around to stare at his friend. 

“Oh yeah, what’s his face,” Enjolras says, snapping his fingers. “Montparnasse,” Bossuet nods. “Why did you think Jehan was dating Courfeyrac?” 

Combeferre looks at a frowning Enjolras, a smiling Feuilly and the cheerful yet confused pair of Joly and Bossuet. 

“Fuck!” he yells, banging his hand on the table. They all jump and Combeferre puts his head in his hands. 

“What?” Enjolras asks. 

“I fucked up, Enjolras, I fucked up big time,” Combeferre tells him, groaning loudly. 

“Combeferre, you do realise he’s totally smitten with you?" This, surprisingly enough, comes from Feuilly, although when Combeferre looks up Enjolras is nodding along enthusiastically, albeit frowning a little confusedly in Feuilly’s direction (but then, no-one is too surprised; Feuilly knows everything about everything. Combeferre has decided on more than occasion that the man is probably a wizard in disguise). 

“I’ve literally ignored him for days because I thought he was dating Jehan,” Combeferre responds dryly, and Enjolras seems to come to a sudden realisation. 

“That’s why he’s been moping around!” he announces, and Combeferre’s heart lifts a little bit from where it had been sitting by his knees. 

“He.. he has?” he asks quietly, feeling himself do that stupid blushing thing again. Enjolras rolls his eyes. 

“It’s been tragic,” Enjolras informs him. “You’re both drama queens.”

Combeferre shrugs, not bothering to deny the accusation, then rises out his seat. 

“Where are you going?” Enjolras looks at him as though he just state that Donald Trump had some reasonable policies. 

“I have to go find him.” 

“You don’t know where he is,” Joly points out. 

“Awwww,” Bossuet gushes. 

“Since when did my life become a fucking rom-com?” Feuilly asks nobody in particular. 

“And leave the meeting?” Enjolras sounds offended, and it is him that Combeferre chooses to address. He narrows his eyes. 

“Enjolras, so far this meeting we have established that Jehan is dating someone who is not Courfeyrac, and that I like Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac may like me. I’m fucking leaving.” 

The door bell of the Musain chimes, and in steps Courfeyrac (Combeferre tries not to have a heart attack and sits back in down his chair as there’s no feeling in his legs) followed by a lanky, freckly man who grins at them all. 

“Greetings, Amis!” Courfeyrac announces, scanning the booth and frowning at the absence of Jehan and Bahorel, then continuing anyway, “I bring a new member,” he shoves the young man forwards, and Combeferre is mildly impressed by the blush that spreads over his face. “Marius Pontmercy!” Courfeyrac finishes with a flourish that makes Combeferre smile helplessly. 

Feuilly receives a swift elbow to the ribs when he can’t stop chuckling at the expression on Combeferre’s face. 

Enjolras stands up, suddenly changed from laughing friend to the terrifying leader. Combeferre, having known him for years, is no longer scared of him, but the newcomer Marius, poor thing, trembles slightly. Next to him, Courfeyrac glares at his roommate. 

Enjolras attempts a smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace, causing Marius squeaks and steps backwards, colliding with the waitress. He spins around to apologise to her, only to stop speechless upon seeing her pink hair and the smile turning up the corners of her cheeks. He squeaks again, and Cosette laughs, blushing, which makes Marius’s knees knock together slightly. 

At this, Enjolras rolls his eyes so hard that Combeferre worries vaguely that they will never come back from the back of his head. 

“Straight people,” he murmurs, before sitting back down and making a vain attempt to bring the meeting to order. 

[][][]

Throughout the next agonising fifteen minutes, Combeferre berates himself mercilessly for being such a fool. To get things so very, very wrong? He’d always prided himself on being sensible, level-headed and quite perceptive, but it seemed that when it came to matters of the heart he was completely the opposite. Bloody typical.

It was a good thing, he supposed as their eyes met over the table, Combeferre smiling and receiving a startled but warm grin in return, that Courfeyrac wore his heart so on his sleeve. Between each other, they balanced each other out.

If he was feeling completely poetic, he might have mused that they were two sides of the same coin, but he decided to leave the fancy verses to Jehan, who was much better and more romantic than Combeferre. 

If Courfeyrac was shocked by Combeferre’s sudden change of heart, he did not appear to hate how things were now, he thinks happily as he sips on his lemonade.

 

The next time that Combeferre catches Courfeyrac’s eye, he’s a bit braver and smiles a little bit more and Courfeyrac actually blushes. Then he winks quickly and turns back to Enjolras, but somehow Combeferre knows he isn’t being snubbed (like Combeferre did to him, goodness he has so much to apologise for), he is simply working in self preservation because Enjolras had started to notice their inattentiveness. Enjolras doesn’t take that much joy in Combeferre potentially sorting his shit out to let his mind wander. 

But Combeferre can’t quite find it within himself to pay his full attention to their leader (he feels bad, but his mind simply wanders back to the beautiful caramel skinned boy sitting opposite him), so instead he counts the minutes down until the end of the meeting to when the drinking will start (as it inevitably) and he can begin to apologise. 

So when Enjolras sits down, looking tired but vaguely pleased, Combeferre stands up, drawing the gazes of all surrounding him. However, he’s only looking at one person. 

“I’m going outside,” he announces, hoping that he’s being plain enough with his emotions that Courfeyrac will follow him. He doesn’t turn to find out, being far too scared to, but hears a scrape of a chair and that is enough to keep him moving out the door and into the street outside. 

Combeferre finds the night dark and cold, his breath misting in front of him as he lets out a nervous laugh. 

“Combeferre?” 

Hearing his name spoken in a curious voice he turns, relief flooding him yet simultaneously making his heart pound heavily in his chest when he sees that Courfeyrac is standing there, wrapping a red scarf which Combeferre is pretty sure is Enjolras’s around his neck. 

“Can we walk?” Combeferre asks gently, and if Courfeyrac is surprised he doesn’t show it, just nods and begins to turn towards the river, Combeferre jogging the few steps to walk by his side. 

Neither of them speak until they reach the Seine, and there Combeferre stops with his fingers resting on the cold wall, acutely aware of Courfeyrac besides him. 

“I hope you realise I’m waiting for you to talk,” Courfeyrac prompts with a slight laugh, although there’s a strain to his voice that’s never been there before. Combeferre nods gently, linking his fingers tightly together, looking out over the river. 

“I do. I just have work out how words work first,” he replies, and at this Courfeyrac laughs again, this time more easily. “Okay,” Combeferre begins eventually. “This is how it is,” 

He turns to look at Courfeyrac, whose smile is as nervous as Combeferre feels. Okay okay okay. “I’m an overdramatic idiot.” 

“Is that all?” 

Combeferre rolls his eyes. 

“Patience, Courfeyrac,” he chides, both of them giggling slightly at the ridiculousness of themselves and the situation. “I really like you, and I’m sorry for ignoring you,” 

“Why did you do that?” Courfeyrac asks, still smiling (although, really, does he ever stop? Fucking hell, Combeferre is so far gone on this boy). 

“Oh,” Combeferre grimaces awkwardly, “I thought you were dating Jehan,” 

Courfeyrac’s eyes widen. 

“What?” he exclaims, causing Combeferre to blush. 

“It’s a long story,” he waves his hand, “the most important thing is that I was wrong, and I’m really, really sorry.” 

Courfeyrac chuckles.

“I was so worried I’d done something wrong,” he admits, and Combeferre groans guiltily, but he shrugs. “Don’t do that. It’s all good now.” 

“You sure?” Combeferre asks the question gingerly, suddenly more anxious than he’s ever been. The smile which spreads over Courfeyrac’s face next makes him warm inside, although he’s slightly wary of the cheekiness hidden in it. 

“Yes,” Courfeyrac gently shifts his weight from foot to foot as he speaks, “but if you don’t ask me out right now we’re going to have a proper problem.”

And Combeferre finds himself laughing at that, laughing at the way that Courfeyrac bites on his lip to stop his own laughter. 

“Alright,” Combeferre announces, holding up a hand in front of Courfeyrac which stops his giggling and makes him look almost thoughtful. If he wasn’t bouncing on the balls of his feet, that is. “Courfeyrac, would you like to go to dinner with me tomorrow night?” He finishes off the proposition with a grand, sweeping gesture of his arm which makes Courfeyrac jump, then smile. 

“Yes,” he replies (much to Combeferre’s great relief). “Yes, I’d like that very much.” 

“Good,” Combeferre murmurs, smiling back in a tired yet calm manner. He sighs deeply, as though the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders. 

Well, you can’t expect him to stop all of his dramatic tendencies, even if things are going well. 

On their stroll back to the Musain, Paris and Courfeyrac have never looked more beautiful. 

[][][]

“You look nice.” 

This is what tumbles out of Combeferre’s mouth when the door opens to reveal a smartly dressed Courfeyrac the next evening. He winces internally at the cliché, but Courfeyrac simply blushes and returns the sentiment. 

Behind him on the sofa Enjolras rolls his eyes at the rom-com moment that seems to be invading important background reading. 

“Thank goodness,” he says as he rises, walking towards where the two wait with an aura of awkwardness by the door, “Courfeyrac has been pacing nervously for the past twenty minutes and it’s been driving me insane.” 

Combeferre is too relieved to know that Courfeyrac is as anxious as he is to notice the piercing glare that Enjolras gets from his roommate. Enjolras, to his credit, shrugs semi-apologetically and then narrows his eyes at Combeferre. 

“Combeferre, you’ve been my best friend since we were kids. You hurt Courfeyrac and I end you.” He says grumpily, and it’s all Combeferre can do not to burst into laughter, because really? Enjolras is trying to scare him? Combeferre has seen Enjolras burn cookies and cry for long periods of time after watching Notting Hill. 

But Courfeyrac looks deeply moved by his roommate’s words, and places a hand solemnly on his own chest. 

“Thank you, Enjolras,” he says, a slight sarcastic undertone to his voice as he winks at Combeferre. 

“The same to you,” Enjolras continues regardless, so that both Combeferre and Courfeyrac have to rapidly turn their laughter into coughs. “You may be my roommate, but I don’t want to see either of you heartbroken. Is that clear?” 

Courfeyrac widens his eyes earnestly, giving his face an angelic quality that Combeferre just melts at. 

“Of course, sir.” he bows deeply, Enjolras barely restraining a smile but folding his arms impatiently nonetheless. 

“I’ll have him home by ten, sir.” Combeferre finishes, grinning when Courfeyrac chuckles. 

Enjolras lifts his hands in exasperation, cottoning onto the fact that they’re both making merciless fun of him, then shoves them out the door. 

“Enjoy your evening,” he shouts decidedly, slamming the door and leaving the pair laughing in the hallway. 

“Okay,” Combeferre says as Courfeyrac shakes his head for the fifth time, doubled over in laughter, trying not to get distracted by the way his curls bounce and then fall perfectly back in place (like how is that even possible?? Someone should notify the world that Courfeyrac’s hair doesn’t apply to simple laws of physics). “I’m taking you to my favourite restaurant in the world.” he tells him, and Courfeyrac stops laughing to look at him with a soft smile. 

“Really?” he seems very touched, and Combeferre looks away to stop himself from blushing even further. 

“Yes. It’s called Wildwood, and it’s the most amazing place.” 

“Sounds like a story,” Courfeyrac says, noting the way that Combeferre moves to say something else, then decides against it. 

“It is,” he admits, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly. 

“Then tell me,” Courfeyrac replies in a whisper, taking Combeferre’s hand (which Combeferre is totally chill about, by the way? He’s not screaming internally, promise) and beginning to walk with him down the hallway. 

So Combeferre tells him all about the trip to London when he was eleven, the ballet he saw in Covent Garden and then the Wildwood there where he had the biggest glass of raspberry lemonade in the world. How ecstatic he was when he found out there was one in Paris, and had been there for every birthday dinner since. 

Then they arrive at the restaurant and Courfeyrac moves into a passionate rant about the immigration trouble in Europe which Combeferre listens to ardently. 

When they order, Courfeyrac realises he’s been talking for ages and blushes, but Combeferre encourages him so he finds out about how Courfeyrac’s mother had moved to Paris from Mexico as a young woman and had fallen in love with the city, passing that love onto her son, which was the reason that Courfeyrac had decided to go to the university that he did. 

When the meal comes (Combeferre choosing the carbonara, as he always does, Courfeyrac opting for a crab risotto), they discuss the weird probability that they’d never bumped into each other before university, despite their respective high schools being not far apart and finding out they both frequented the same cinema as teenagers.

 

Combeferre makes Courfeyrac gasp with laughter with stories of Enjolras, then Combeferre falls just a tiny bit more in love when Courfeyrac pulls a thin volume of poetry out of his jacket and shows him some of his favourites. 

Over dessert Courfeyrac recites one of them, a beautiful yet tragic poem, and Combeferre is so distracted that he drops a spoonful of ice cream straight onto his trousers, resulting in very cold legs and major embarrassment that luckily only makes Courfeyrac laugh his head off. 

Together they split the bill and leave the largest tip they can, receiving a grateful smile from the waitress who wishes them a lovely evening. They exit with fingers brushing then needing to be slipped into pockets for warmth as the wind blows harshly, shoulders bumping instead as Courfeyrac laughs at one of Combeferre’s terrible science puns (Combeferre is glad that Courfeyrac likes them, because he’s got a lot of them).

Combeferre walks Courfeyrac back to his apartment slowly, not even the cold making him quicken his pace and reduce his time with Courfeyrac. Around them, Parisians rush around, collars turned up and hats pulled on heads against the chill, but Courfeyrac, his nose pink, simply smiles at Combeferre and asks him about why he decided to study medicine. 

Courfeyrac’s heart aches when they turn back onto his street, and even though they linger outside, fiddling with the code, then dawdle up the stairs, stopping for a full five minutes on one of the landings whilst Combeferre muses about his choice of university, they’re back at Courfeyrac’s rooms too soon, way too soon. Still, they stand there discussing the new season of Brooklyn Nine-Nine until Enjolras opens the door and grins widely at them. 

“Are you going to come in?” he asks kindly, smiling at Combeferre and stepping aside to let them both in. On the table lay three cups of steaming coffee. 

Combeferre looks at Courfeyrac and smiles. 

“Yes,” he says, taking the shorter man’s hand. “That’d be lovely.”


End file.
